


Making The Bird Sing: A Tale of Samson and Roman Hawke

by queenofkadara, Schoute



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst, Blood Mages, F/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Quickies, Roman and Samson dance around feelings and bang instead, Rough Sex, S&M, Smut, as always there's art!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-16
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:42:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 108,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25662301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenofkadara/pseuds/queenofkadara, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schoute/pseuds/Schoute
Summary: Roman stared at Samson with a burn of anger in her gut. He had this look on his face that never failed to put her on edge: his lips were a sarcastic curl of a smile, but the smile didn't quite reach the world-weary melancholy in his bloodshot eyes.She sneered at him. "Fuck you, Samson."He tucked his hands in his pockets, and his smile became a little bit sly. "Make me, Bird."************************This is the story of Schoute's Roman Hawke and Raleigh Samson, who Deserved Better Than What Bioware Gave Him™. This fic will span from the start of DA2 through the end of Inquisition.Most chapters will be smutty. I'll say which ones in the author's notes at the start.
Relationships: Female Hawke/Raleigh Samson
Comments: 130
Kudos: 107





	1. Bird

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N Schoute: First little Roman/Samson bit I wrote! Timeline is sometime during Act 1, before the deep roads! Thank you as always to the amazing Pika for beta-ing!

Roman was looking for the solution to her problems at the bottom of a bottle. It didn't even matter which problem she was looking to solve because  _ fuck, _ she had so many. And even when it wasn't her own problems nagging at the back of her mind, Kirkwall always seemed to find more for her. 

Thankfully, the bartender was heavy-handed on the pours tonight. A warm buzz was crawling under her skin, increasing with each sip from her tankard. Roman relished in the weightless feeling of intoxication and the ability it had to just make you forget, even if it was only for the night. She didn't even want to remember her own name by the time she was leaving the Hanged Man, if she was lucky. She took another long drought from her tankard, and when she lowered it from her lips, she was surprised to find that she had company. 

"Varric," Roman drawled, replacing her tankard on the table. "To what do I owe the pleasure of your chest hair." 

Varric snorted and pulled a chair out to join her. "I saw you skulking here and couldn't pass up the opportunity for a captive audience while I edit this next chapter." He withdrew a manuscript from a coat pocket and gave it a fond pat. "I'm just getting to the lovey crap, which I know is your favorite."

Roman groaned and brought her tankard to her lips again. Varric was teasing her, of course. Everyone knew her feelings on love, or lack thereof. For all that she knew, love didn't exist – at the very least not the kinds that Varric wrote about. Courageous heroes sweeping lovers off their feet and riding into the sunset to live happily ever after. 

What a load of shit.

Now, lust was something Roman understood. Something tangible that could be sought out with any willing partner, and it never had to be more than that. Lust was simple. Which is exactly how Roman liked it. Simple.

Raising her tankard, she looked at Varric. "You promise to keep these coming, and I'll even pretend to listen when you tell me about how unbearably in love they are." 

Varric huffed, but in the end agreed to her terms and within moments they were both hunkered over his manuscript with frosty ales in hand. 

As the night went on and Varric--keeping true to his word--kept the ales coming, Roman found herself slipping deeper and deeper into the blissful fog of drunkenness. The noise around in the tavern became nothing more than a low hum as she listened, and tried to focus on the words Varric was saying. 

"Hawke.”

She startled slightly when Varric’s hand fell on her shoulder, and she lifted her cheek from the table.

The atmosphere of The Hanged Man had died down. The usual raucous music had settled to a slow beat, and only a few guests (those renting rooms like Varric, she assumed) were left in the bar. 

Varric gathered the pages of his manuscript, tapping them lightly against the table into a tidy pile before tucking them back into his coat. How far had they gotten anyway? Roman couldn’t remember. Looking down at the tankard that was cozily tucked against her from when she’d seemingly dozed off on the table, she smiled in satisfaction. Her goal had been to forget, hadn’t it? 

“It’s last call,” Varric said, throwing back what was left in his tankard. “Let me walk you home, we all know you’re a sloppy drunk.” 

The dwarf shot her a grin, and Roman scoffed. She finished the now warm ale in her tankard and kicked out from the table, only stumbling slightly as she stood. “Don’t pull that mother hen shit on me, you sound like Carver,” she muttered, tugging her coat on. “I’ve made this walk alone dozens of times, and I’ll make it a dozen more.”

Truthfully, Roman had only ever experienced Kirkwall’s unsavory nightlife when she and her companions were out chasing leads in the dead of night. Which meant that in comparison, the walk from the Hanged Man to Gamlen’s house was nothing. She pulled her coat collar closer around her neck and dropped a few coins on the table before looking back to the dwarf.

Varric sighed, and raised his hands in defeat. “Alright, alright. Just don’t talk to any strangers that offer you a great deal on hardcover printing, it’s never  _ that _ good of a deal.” 

Roman raised a brow. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

He chuckled and gave her elbow a light pat. “Goodnight, Hawke.”

And with Varric’s warning left cryptically unanswered, Roman watched as he retreated up the stairs to the upper level of the tavern. 

Tossing the bartender a two finger salute, Roman jammed her hands deep into her pockets and headed out into the Lowtown streets.

She should have been thankful that the alcohol had done its job that evening. Currently, Roman was feeling that perfect level of intoxication where the world hadn't  _ quite _ begun to spin, but whatever bullshit problems she’d been mulling over before she’d started drinking had quieted enough to let her forget for now. 

Without the incessant thoughts of everything she had to do chewing at her brain in her drunken stupor, the walk through Lowtown was almost pleasant. 

_ Almost _ .

Three men stood at the end of the alleway blocking her path, and Roman wrinkled her nose. She really was in no mood to deal with this kind of shit tonight. 

Squaring her shoulders, Roman marched forward. She wasn’t about to let a few assholes blocking an alley kill her buzz. 

Her booted feet echoed with each confident step she took toward the men. If they knew what was good for them they’d let her pass, otherwise…

Roman’s shoulder slammed into one of the men who’d shifted to block her path. “Fuck off,” she hissed, with a sharp shove to his chest.

A low snicker rumbled across the men as the other two took a few steps closer. Roman held her ground. 

“She’s got a mouth on her, lads,” one of the men said.

“Can think of better uses for that mouth,” another replied, sending another wave of salacious chuckles through the group as they closed in around her.

Roman scowled. Being accosted was certainly a new thing to add on the list of Lowtown amenities.

She opened her mouth to tell these assholes where they could stick their tiny pricks, but before she could speak, another voice spoke from behind her: “There you are.” 

Goosebumps rose on Roman’s skin. She’d know that voice anywhere.

“Ay, why don’t you fuck off mate, this doesn’t concern you,” one of the men called out, snatching Roman’s upper arm. 

In an instant Roman was biting hard into the thumb of her free hand, the iron taste of blood flooding her mouth. At the same moment Samson was at her side, lashing out at her would be attackers. She didn’t need to kill these idiots – just teach them enough of a lesson to make them think twice about stopping women in alleys. 

Focusing on the throbbing ache of her bloodied thumb, Roman channel that energy into the man tightly gripping her arm. In seconds he’d released her as if the very feel of her body was causing him discomfort, and she supposed in a way, it was. He stumbled back from her with a wail, hands clawing frantically along his body as his skin reddened. 

Upon hearing the attacker howling in pain, the other men ran, leaving their afflicted partner behind as they scrambled into the dark of the alleys. 

Roman exhaled, releasing the spell she’d cast. The man scrambled to his feet, visibly shaken and beet red.

“Fucking witch,” he spat before following the same path his partners had fled. 

Sucking at the bloodied flesh of her thumb, she turned to Samson, who was leaning casually against the dingy alleyway walls. 

“Well if it isn’t my big, strong hero,” she muttered around her thumb. “You want a prize or something?”

Samson snorted. “Those friends of yours, then?” 

“I had it handled,” Roman quickly fired back. What was in the fucking air tonight with the men in her life trying to coddle her? “If you’d minded your own business, I might not have had to do this.” She waggled her bleeding thumb at him before tucking it back against her lips.

Samson’s eyes pinned her where she stood, sunken and tired but no less captivating. He pushed away from the wall, and Roman watched as he approached her.

“You would have done it with or without my help,” he drawled, stopping in front of her. “You crave it.”

Roman snorted and rolled her eyes. “What? Crave being harassed in alleyways? My, my, you do know just what to say to a girl-”

“No,” in a flash his hand snapped forward, snatching her wrist and inspecting her bloody thumb. “This. The thrill it gives you. We’re not so different, Bird. You’re chasing vices, same as me.”

Roman's gut twisted in knots as the piercing words left his mouth. Since the time they’d first worked with Samson, he and Roman had established a rapport, and they'd started to talk.

Her curiosity began with Roman wondering why a (now ex) Templar was so interested in the wellbeing of mages. Especially when it seemed that everywhere you turned in Kirkwall, there were Templars hauling young mages away from their families and off to the Gallows. She’d see him whenever she and Varric and the others were prowling through Lowtown at night, and Roman would take a minute or two to talk to him. 

And then their encounters kept happening.

She claimed it was because of their agreement: Samson would be her ears in Lowtown, keeping her informed on anything that could be of use, and in return she gave him coin. Roman would stumble out of the Hanged Man smelling of whatever ale was on tap that night, and she’d inevitably find her way to Samson's usual haunt. It'd always start business as usual, but quickly evolve into a pigheaded battle of smartass remarks exchanged between them, neither wanting the other to gain the upper hand. 

And if Roman was really being truthful with herself--something she tried to avoid at all costs--she lived for those sharp conversations with Samson, finding herself more drawn to him each time they spoke. 

Now, Roman wasn't shy by any means, especially when it came to casual sex. But as their current arrangement stood, asking her informant to fuck seemed like surefire way to get screwed over--and not in the fun way. 

Which maybe was why Roman was so shocked when Samson's words struck her right to the core. She was always so careful not to reveal too much about herself when talking to anyone, but  _ especially _ him. And yet in one sentence, he'd picked apart just what made her tick.

With a snarl, Roman tried to wrestle her wrist out of Samson's grasp, but her struggling only served to tighten his grip. 

A sharp tug pulled her closer to him, so close that she could smell the metallic twinge of lyrium mixing with something organic and woody, close enough to feel the heat of his arm pressing against hers. They'd never been this close before, and a spike of lust shot through her core. 

"Go home, Bird," he growled beside her ear. And as quickly as his hand was on her, it was gone.

He returned to his casual position against the wall, and Roman watched stupidly as he picked at his nails. Her intoxicated mind still trying to process how effortlessly he'd seen through her, as well as the desperate part of her brain that wanted him to touch her more.

She couldn't let him have the last word.

"Don't you want your coin?" she asked with an indignant raise of her chin. 

"I don't have any new news for you," he said. "And we can consider that little dance from earlier as settled, in return for a favor."

Roman quirked a brow and frowned. "What kind of favor?"

"If I knew, that would defeat the purpose of having the favor, wouldn't it?” His eyes lingered on her for a moment before he went back to inspecting his grubby nails. "Go home, Bird," he repeated. "Or I'll drag your scrawny ass back to your uncles myself." 

It was clear that Samson wasn't about to give her anything else to go off of for this favor tonight. And as tempting as it was to see if he'd hold true to the promise of dragging her home, she didn't need Leandra  _ or _ Gamlen knowing anything about her business in Lowtown at night. 

With a quick flick of her middle finger directed at Samson, Roman left. But curiosity got the better of her. When she was almost out of the alleyway, she glanced over her shoulder to see if he was still there.

He was. And that throb of want was back in her gut again. 

Because he was watching her. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find more art of these two on my tumblr [here](https://schoute.tumblr.com/), and more of [Pikapeppa on Tumblr](https://pikapeppa.tumblr.com/)!


	2. Hate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Roman and Samson's first time having sex.
> 
> Timeline note: post-Act I, right after Hawke and the crew return from the deep roads.

_Bullshit,_ Roman thought. _This is all fucking bullshit._

She pushed open the door to the Hanged Man and skulked inside with a scowl. Despite her attempts to be discreet, the noise in the room immediately dimmed, then returned to normal volume — a volume that was enhanced, unfortunately, by murmurs about _her_. 

“Look, there she is! It’s Hawke!”

“Maker, she looks right pissed.”

“She always looks that way, you idiot.”

“More’n usual though, eh? If I’d come back alive from the deep roads with treasure up to me ears, I think I’d be a sight happier than that.”

Roman sneered. _Hang the fucking treasure,_ she thought. As far as she was concerned, the treasure wasn’t worth the shit that she, Varric, Anders and Isabela had been through during the past few months of being stuck in that ancient thaig. If she was being honest, though, the seemingly-interminable trek through the deep roads wasn’t what was really enraging her.

She didn’t say any of this, though. She didn’t look at or speak to anyone. She made a beeline straight to the bar and sat on the corner stool, then gave the bartender a forbidding _don’t-fucking-ask_ look as she waved him over.

He swallowed visibly as he drew near. “Evening, Hawke. What’ll you—” 

“Whiskey. Neat. Cheapest you’ve got,” Roman said. She pulled a gold royal out of her coin pouch and placed it on the bar. “And keep it coming.” 

The bartender’s eyes widened at the small fortune. “R-right away!” he said, and he snatched the coin from the bar. A moment later, he placed a stein on the bar and poured her a measure of whiskey, then placed the bottle in front of her.

She nodded wordlessly and gulped down the whiskey in two big swallows. It burned on the way down in a bad, shitty-liquor sort of way that would leave her throat sore in the morning, but the abrasive burn suited her mood perfectly.

She poured herself another generous drink, then plonked her elbows on the bar and moodily sipped from her stein. The Hanged Man was as lively as she remembered, half-lit by lantern light and noisy with music and shouting and drunken laughter, and it was… 

_Fucking surreal,_ she thought. That’s what this was. It was surreal that life could go on so unchanged here in Kirkwall, while everything about Roman’s life felt like it had been upended yet again for the umpteenth time. 

In truth, she didn’t even really want to be here. But there was nowhere else for her to go. She didn’t want to go back to Gamlen’s right now; she was fucking sick of her family’s shit. There was Gamlen bitching and whining about not getting a cut of the treasure that Roman had brought back, and Leandra’s passive-aggressive bullshit about Roman being gone so long, and Carver… 

The anger pulsed in her ears at the thought of Carver. She took a deep breath to try and calm herself, then gulped down the rest of her drink and poured another. 

She could go to the Amell mansion now that it officially belonged to her family again. But frankly, she was sick of thinking about the fucking mansion. It was all she’d been thinking about for the past couple of weeks as they made their way back to Kirkwall from the ass-end of nowhere that Bartrand had left them for dead. She’d kept her mind on that mansion, on the fact that _that_ was the reason she’d gone to the fucking deep roads and that she was going to get that fucking mansion back if it killed her. And now that she’d done it, the last thing she wanted was to be anywhere near the place.

She couldn’t go to Gamlen’s and she couldn’t go to the mansion, and she’d be damned before she asked Fenris or Merrill or anyone else for a place to crash for the night. So that left the Hanged Man. As long as she had her bottle of whiskey, she’d be just fine right here, thank you very much. 

She sipped her drink and closed her eyes to try and get a measure of peace, but a second later, someone spoke to her. 

“Hey,” Varric said.

She opened her eyes and glanced at him. “No offense, Varric, but I’m pretty sick of seeing your face.” She turned back to the bar and lifted her stein to her lips. “You’re better off leaving me alone.”

He huffed, impervious as always to her moods, and jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “So I guess that’s a no to joining us for a hand of wicked grace?”

She glanced over his shoulder. Merrill, Anders, Isabela, and a handful of other random people were sitting at a table at the back and clearly waiting for Varric’s return.

Roman snorted and turned back to face the bar. “Not fucking likely. Sorry,” she added as an afterthought. It wasn’t Varric’s fault that her family were a bunch of ungrateful assholes. 

He patted her elbow. “No sweat. See you later.” He left her alone once more.

She shook her head slightly and sipped her drink. She’d never understand Varric’s constant ability to be around people — to find comfort in other people’s company. Comfort in the bottom of a bottle, sure. Comfort from being around others? That had never been Roman’s thing. 

Although if she was honest, there was one kind of ‘comfort’ that she wouldn’t mind getting from someone right now. A physical comfort she hadn’t had since long before their trip to the deep roads, and the lack of which was probably not helping her mood. 

And if Roman was being really, _really_ honest with herself, there was only one person she really wanted to get that kind of ‘physical comfort’ from. 

_Samson._ She hadn’t seen him since a week or so before they’d left for the deep roads. She hadn’t told him she was leaving, because why the fuck would she, but… it had been a while since she’d seen him. Not that she cared how he was doing or anything. Not that she’d been imagining his sarcastic smile or the way he studied his dirty nails when he was making his snarky remarks or anything like that. 

_Don’t think about him,_ she thought. _He’s just a dirty beggar from Darktown. He doesn’t matter. He’s nobody._ She pushed away the unwelcome thought of Samson’s weary bloodshot eyes and finished off her drink, then poured herself a fourth.

She was staring vacantly at the wall and nursing the dregs of her fourth whiskey when she smelled it: a warm and woody musk, overlaid with the distinct twang of lyrium. At first, she was sure she must be imagining it — conjuring his distinct scent in her mind since it had been so long. A second later, however, she heard his voice.

“I hear congratulations are in order, _Lady_ Hawke,” Samson drawled.

Her heart stopped for a split second, then burst into a gallop. With great care, she shot him a venomous look. “Don’t fucking call me that. And what, _now_ you remember my actual name?”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about, Bird,” he said casually. He sat on the stool beside her — a bold move, since anyone with half a brain knew to give Roman a wide berth whenever she was in this sort of mood. Which, to be frank, was more often than not.

She sneered at him, then lifted her stein to her lips. “If you’re looking for a handout, go look somewhere else. I’m not in the mood.”

He leaned his elbows on the bar. “Like I’d take a handout from you, anyway. A man’s got his pride.”

She scoffed loudly. “Like hell you have. I’ve given you coin more times than I can count.” 

He chuckled softly — that gritty little _heh-heh-heh_ that never failed to set her nerves on edge while also bringing them sparking to life. “Ah, I guess you’re right,” he said. “Guess I shouldn’t slander the wench who keeps me in the dust.” He leaned toward her with a smirk. “I’d almost think you’re soft for me, Bird.”

She wrinkled her nose and leaned away from him. “Get away from me. You smell.” It didn’t matter that she _liked_ his unwashed-manly-man scent. That wasn’t the point. 

He clicked his tongue and shifted away from her. “Maker’s balls, you’re cranky. Is that how you treat someone who wants to buy you a drink to celebrate your fancy ladyship?”

She glared at him. “I’m not a fucking lady. And how d’you know about that, anyway?” Only this afternoon had she filed the paperwork to reinstate the nobility of the Amell name and to get the mansion back. If she wasn’t already drunk, she’d probably be a lot more pissed that he knew her personal business.

“Ears and eyes, Bird,” Samson said. “People low down hear lots of things from up top.” 

His expression was knowing and sly. Roman rolled her eyes. “You’re full of shit. Especially since I know you’re not here to buy me a drink. You have no coin, remember?”

He grunted an acknowledgement. “Eh. I’ve no coin, it’s true. Guess you’re right.”

She stared flatly at him and waited for him to say more, but when he just sat there staring back at her with his surprisingly pretty grey eyes, she _tsk_ ed and waved to the bartender. 

“Give me another stein,” she said. 

The bartender placed a stein in front of her, and she poured some whiskey into it and shoved it in Samson’s direction. “Here,” she said roughly. “You’ve got your fucking handout. Happy now?”

“Sure am,” he said. He picked up the stein and tapped it against hers, then took a sip. 

They sat at the bar in silence for a while sipping their drinks, and to Roman’s surprise, she could feel some of the perpetual tension leaving her shoulders. When she got to the bottom of her stein, she shot Samson a resentful look. “Seriously, what the fuck are you doing here?”

“Having a drink,” he said. “What’s it look like I’m doing?”

She shot him a dirty look, then looked away at the wall. Then Samson spoke again. “You were gone a long time, Bird.”

“I know bloody well how long I was gone, all right?” she snapped.

He ignored her tone, as usual. “What happened?” he asked.

She spun toward him. “None of your fucking business!” she barked.

He held up one hand lazily. “All right, all right. Don’t get your knickers in a twist,” he said, and he sipped his drink again.

Roman fumed silently and tapped her fingers on the bar. Then she shot him another venomous glare. “We got trapped in the deep roads, all right? That’s what happened. If you _have_ to know.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Maker’s balls. That must’ve been good.”

“It was shit,” she said bluntly. “The deep roads are shit.”

Samson nodded slowly. “Sorry to hear that. You came back with coin though, eh?”

The anger simmering in her stomach suddenly burst into boil. Before she could stop herself, the anger was pouring out of her mouth in a stream of vitriol. “Is that all you fucking care about?” she yelled. “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? You heard I came back to town with a bunch of fucking treasure from the deep roads, so you thought you’d come here and leech off of me like you always do?”

Samson stared at her in silence. He looked angry but also oddly calm, and only then did Roman realize she was on her feet and aggressively in his face.

 _Very_ close to his face, actually. His nose was a mere couple of inches from hers. She could smell the harsh whiskey and the even harsher lyrium on his breath, and the harsh perfume of it sent a flood of heat through her body.

“Sit down, Bird,” he said, very quietly. 

Her pounding heart thudded even more loudly in her ears. “Don’t you tell me what to do,” she snarled.

His expression didn’t change. “Roman, sit down.”

 _Roman._ He knew her first name. He knew her first name? Nobody except Varric and the others knew her first name, and nobody called her by it. How did Samson know her name?

She stared at him for a moment. Then she sat and belligerently grabbed his drink. “Fuck you,” she said, and she finished his drink before shoving the empty stein back toward him. 

He calmly picked up the bottle of whiskey and poured himself another drink. For another long, tense minute, they sat there in silence as Roman breathed slowly and tried to get her temper — and her libido — back under control. 

Samson eventually spoke again. “What’s got you so pissed then, eh? You’re worse company than usual.”

She took another deep breath. Then, for some reason, she actually told him why she was angry. “While I was trapped in the bloody deep roads, my fucking brother went and joined the Templars.”

Samson lifted an eyebrow, then barked out a laugh. “Fallen in with my lot, has he?”

“They’re not your lot. They threw you out, remember?” Her tone sounded sarcastic to her own ears, and she was too drunk to know if she was trying to be cruel or kind by saying this to him.

He huffed and lifted the stein to his lips. “Thanks a lot, Bird.”

 _I guess I was being cruel, then,_ she thought. To her surprise, her gut churned with a twist of guilt. 

She hunched her shoulders. “Don’t fucking pout. You’re better off without them.”

“Am I?” he said archly. “You’re sure about that?”

“Yes,” she said firmly. “They’re… they’re fucking prison guards. Glorified prison guards who think their lyrium addiction is a boon from the Maker. Who doesn’t exist, by the way,” she added vindictively, “but what the fuck do I know.”

Samson smirked. “Better watch your mouth, or someone’ll cut those pretty lips off for speaking ill of the Chantry.”

 _Pretty lips?_ she thought vaguely. She grabbed his stein and took another sip before plonking it on the bar once more. “They can bloody well try. They’ll lose more than just their lips if they do.”

He let out a raspy laugh that made her blood simmer. “Ah, Bird. Kirkwall’s a lot more lively now you’re back.”  
She snorted in disgust, then idly picked at the red kerchief around her wrist. “Why did the Templars throw you out, anyway?”

He shot her a sideways look. “Maybe that’s none of your business.”

His tone was mocking. Roman _tsk_ ed and looked away. “Fine. Don’t tell me. I don’t fucking care.”

There was a brief silence as Samson nursed his drink. When his whiskey was gone, he pushed the stein away. “There was this one mage in the Circle,” he said. “Kid named Maddox. Quiet kid, nice, like most of ‘em were. He had a piece here in the city, so I’d bring letters back and forth for them sometimes.” He poured himself another drink. “It was all going fine, you know, wasn’t hurting anyone. But that bitch Meredith disagreed. Called it ‘fraternizing between a Templar and a mage’ and threw me out of the Order, and well… here we are.” He gestured sarcastically at himself.

Roman stared at him, stunned by his tale. “Seriously?” she said. “That’s why you got thrown out? For passing love notes between a mage and some city kid?”

“That’s it, yeah,” Samson said. He shot her a suspicious look. “Why? What did you think I’d done?”

“I… I don’t know,” she said blankly. “Fucked a mage. Raided a lyrium store or something. I don’t fucking know.”

He scowled. “I don’t fuck children or prisoners, Bird. And I was a good little Templar who stuck to my lyrium rations back then. Not like now.” He let out a humourless chuckle. “Nowadays, I’m just a broken old man who’d do just about anything to get a hit of the dust.” 

That thought made her stomach lurch. The thought of Samson debasing himself for a hint of lyrium, all because the fucking Knight-Commander didn’t like him passing notes between a mage and his lover… 

And now Carver had gone to join the Templars. He’d joined that corrupt, fucked-up, power-hungry faction of Chantry assholes that Roman hated so much — that would throw Roman herself into the Circle if they ever found out about her magic. Her own younger brother joining the Templars, willingly giving himself over to get addicted to lyrium like Samson had done…

She swallowed hard, then reached into her coin pouch and grabbed a handful of coin. “Here,” she said, and she slapped it onto the bar in front of him. 

Samson’s face went slack with surprise. He hastily covered the coin — and her hand — with his own hand. “What the fuck d’you think you’re doing?” he hissed.

His palm was callused and warm. She hastily pulled her hand away from him and jerked her chin at the coin. “Take it. I don’t need it.”

He quickly swept the coin off the counter and into his hand. “You can’t go flashing around your coin in ‘ere like that,” he scolded quietly. “You want to get your throat cut on your way home?”

Roman laughed nastily. “They can try. I’ll cut them first.”

Samson lowered his voice even more. “How?” he demanded. “You going to use your filthy blood magic tricks on ‘em?”

“Shut up,” Roman hissed. “Don’t talk about that here!”

“Then don’t go swinging your coin around like you’ve got something to prove,” he retorted.

His bossy tone sparked the ever-present simmer of rage in her belly. She slowly rose to her feet and gave Samson a hard stare. “Stop telling me what to do,” she said.

He glared at her, uncowed. “Then stop acting like a stupid bitch without a brain in her head.”

She took a threatening step closer to him. “Fuck you, Samson,” she gritted.

To her surprise, he leaned toward her until his shoulder was almost brushing her chest. “Make me, _Bird,_ ” he whispered harshly.

Suddenly, it felt as though the bottom had dropped out of her stomach, leaving her dizzy and disoriented and thrumming with unfettered rage — a heated sort of rage that was reaching into her palms and pounding in her ears and pulsing between her legs. 

She stared furiously into his bloodshot yet oddly clear grey eyes. Her breaths were sharp and angry in her ears, breaths that became increasingly sharp as her lungs were filled with his warm and earthy scent. 

She shoved away from the bar and stormed toward the door, stumbling slightly as she did, then burst into the relative cool of Lowtown’s nighttime air. She started striding toward… fuck, she had no idea where she was going. All she knew was that she hated Samson. She fucking _hated_ him, with his obnoxious little laugh and his mage sympathies and the way he always warned her to be careful with her fucking blood magic like he gave a shit what could happen if she was caught–

A hand grabbed her arm, and she instinctively spun toward her assailant and swung at them. “Don’t fucking touch me!” she yelled. 

“Shut your mouth,” Samson snapped. He grabbed her waist and shoved her toward a nearby alley. 

She struggled in his grip, surprised and turned on by how strong he was. Wait, turned on? No she wasn’t, she wasn’t turned on. She fucking _hated_ him. “Let go of me,” she railed, and she twisted her arm. “Let me go–”

He roughly shoved her into the alley and penned her against the wall with his body. “Shut up, Bird,” he hissed, and he covered her mouth with his hand. 

His hand was hot and callused against her lips, and the thrumming heat in her blood surged to a dizzying degree. Incensed by his grip on her mouth, she bit his hand.

His face twisted in a grimace of pain, but he didn’t let her go. “Listen,” he hissed.

For a second, she stopped struggling and listened, and she immediately heard what had prompted his behaviour: the sound of three male voices in the street, discussing _her_. 

“She’s got enough coin to throw down on the bar like that, she’s got enough for all of us. We’ll just beat her, take it and go.”

“You got shit for brains or something? We can’t leave Hawke alive. That bitch has friends in the Viscount’s Keep. She’s friends with that Tethras asshole, and you _know_ that he knows people in the Carta. We’ve got to kill her and get rid of the body.”

“Kill Hawke? You know she’s a mage, right?”

“Nug shit. That’s a fucking rumour.”

“Look, who cares if she’s a mage? Just means she’s even easier to beat up. Mages got weak bodies, see? And I don’t know ‘bout you, but I didn’t see no staff on her. Let’s just kill her, take her coin and be done.”

The rage surged again in Roman’s ears, and her blood hummed in the way it always did when violence was on the horizon. _Let them try,_ she thought. _Let them fucking try, I dare them._ She punched Samson in the belly so he’d let her go. 

He grunted softly, but instead of releasing her, he grabbed her wrist and pinned it firmly against the wall, then stepped closer until she was squished between his body and the wall.

Roman stopped breathing. His body against hers was wiry and hard and — oh fuck, Maker’s fucking balls, there was one part of him that was _particularly_ hard, and it was pressing into her belly, just above the waistband of her knee-length skirt.

He pressed his lips to her ear. “You’re not fighting them tonight, Bird,” he whispered harshly. “They’re too damned big, and you’re too damned drunk.”

His whisper sent a shiver down her spine. She twisted her face in his grip, desperate to retort that she _wasn’t_ too fucking drunk and that she wasn’t going to let those assholes get away with talking shit about her, but Samson’s grip on her face was implacable. 

With some difficulty, she bit his palm again, and when that only prompted another pained grunt, she licked his palm. 

He exhaled against her ear. “Bloody Maker’s balls,” he breathed. “Give it a rest, will you?” 

His voice had a certain growl to it now, a growl that echoed his earlier taunt to ‘ _make me_ ’... and suddenly she was lightheaded, her blood humming with rage and unleashed power, pounding an angry beat in her ears and her throat and between her legs where she wanted that thick hardness of his to go. 

She licked his palm again. He groaned quietly against her ear, and her eyes fluttered shut. The three thugs were still talking distantly, but Roman didn’t hear them; all she could hear was Samson breathing in her ear, and all she could think about was the ridge of his cock against her belly and the salt of his hand on her tongue… 

She twisted her hips and scratched his chest with her free hand, and Samson grunted in her ear. “You fucking wildcat,” he snarled. “Would you quit until they’re gone?”

She shook her head as much as she could and scratched his chest again, wishing that she was able to score his skin directly instead of scraping at him through his shirt. Then he suddenly bit her neck just below her ear. 

She gasped into his palm. A rush of warmth bloomed between her legs, and she realized with a jolt how wet she was. 

Samson bit her again, then bit the side of her ear. “You get what you give, Bird,” he whispered. “Now stand bloody well still.”

 _Never,_ she thought viciously. She scratched him and tried to pull her wrist from his grip and curled her hips toward his cock, and Samson just stood there with his wiry body shoved against her and his mouth panting hotly against her neck and his surprisingly strong hands holding her in place, and all the while the thugs were standing in the street discussing the best way to kill her. 

_I hate them,_ she raged internally. _I hate those assholes, and I hate this city, and I really, really fucking hate Samson._ She twisted and struggled, and the eagerness pooled through her smallclothes to paint the inner margins of her thighs, and she was so distracted by how much she _hated_ and _wanted_ him that she didn’t notice when the thugs went away. 

When Samson suddenly released her and stepped back, she gasped in a breath and slumped back against the wall. She roughly wiped her mouth and glared viciously at him, only to find him glaring back at her.

His mouth was twisted in a sneer, and his chest was heaving with angry breaths. “What’s your bloody problem?” he demanded. “I was only trying to help you.”

“Well, don’t,” she snapped. “I can look after myself.”

“Not tonight, you couldn’t ‘ave,” he retorted.

“You don’t fucking know me,” she spat. “Don’t try to save me. You don’t — you don’t _know_ me!”

He folded his arms. “I know you gave me a hell of a lot of coin just now for no good reason. Why’d you do that?”

For some reason, her heart twisted painfully. The coin was nothing. It was the least that he deserved. He’d been thrown out on his own to cope with his lyrium addiction just for passing love letters, and the more she thought about it, the more it made her chest hurt. 

And the more her chest hurt, the more angry she felt. 

“I hate you,” she spat.

His lips melted into a sly smirk, even though the anger remained in the crease of his eyebrows. “That’s not what that skinny little body of yours is saying.”

Her skinny little body pulsed hotly in response to his knowing smirk, and this only made her angrier still. “Fuck you,” she hissed. “Fuck you and fuck off, and – just – fuck you.” 

He raised his eyebrows and took a small step closer to her, and her body thrilled at his nearness. Then he took another tempting step closer. “Try again, Bird,” he drawled. 

She belligerently lifted her chin. “Fuck. You,” she said, very deliberately. 

His smile widened, and he chuckled. Then he planted one hand on the wall beside her head and slid his other hand up the inside of her thigh. 

Her lips fell open on a shocked inhale. Then his fingers were lightly petting her through her smalls, and Roman couldn’t help herself: she rocked her hips helplessly toward his hand, suddenly and terribly desperate for the heat of his hand directly against her skin. 

He leaned in close and brushed his lips over her ear. “This doesn’t feel like you hate me, Bird.” 

“Yes I do,” she gasped. “I hate you, I fucking – oh _fuck_!” She broke off with a moan; his fingers were pulling the crotch of her smallclothes to the side, and when he pressed his finger directly into her pussy, the pleasure was so acute that it forced her eyes shut. 

She leaned her head back against the wall and thrust her hips toward his hand, and Samson grunted against her ear. “You’re a nasty wildcat, you know that?” he whispered. “Trying to fight me off when _this_ is what you were really gagging for.”

She shook her head in a stupid pointless denial, and Samson bit her neck, sending another bone-melting thrill between her legs. “No?” he murmured. “You don’t want this? I should stop then, shouldn’t I?” He started pulling his hand out of her skirt.

Roman grabbed his hand. “No,” she blurted. “Don’t you dare stop, you asshole.” 

He smiled and didn’t move his hand. “Or what? What will the rich and fancy Lady Hawke do if I don’t finish ‘er off?”

“I’ll… I’ll bite your fucking finger off,” she threatened. It was a childish threat and Roman knew it, and unfortunately Samson did too; his smile widened into something wicked and slightly vindictive, and he pulled his hand out of her skirt entirely.

Riled and enraged and horribly, desperately incomplete, Roman mewled – actually made a needy sound like a cat in heat. Samson exhaled heavily, then tipped her chin up with the hand that had been in her skirt. “Say it then,” he told her. “Say it, and I’ll do what you want.”

She breathed shallowly and glared at him. His fingers carried her scent — the scent of how much she needed him, whether she wanted to admit it or not, and she really did _not_ want to admit it.

She ignored the throbbing pulse of her clit and sneered at him. “Fuck you.”

He shook his head. “Try again, pretty Bird.”

She curled her lip. She was no one’s pretty bird, especially not his. “ _Fuck you,_ ” she snarled. 

He stepped _very_ close to her and pressed his hips into her belly. “Try again,” he whispered. 

Maker’s balls, his cock against her belly, the scent of her own desperation on his hand, the sly smile on his sallow face… 

At long last, Roman finally gave in. “Fuck me,” she blurted. 

His face lit up, then twisted into an obnoxiously satisfied smile. “All right then,” he said. A second later, his hand was inside of her skirt and he was pulling her smallclothes down and fuck, _fuck_ , he was kneeling at her feet to drag her smalls down to her ankles. Then he was shoving up her skirt and oh fuck, oh Maker’s balls, he was pushing her legs apart and she hadn’t expected this–

Samson ran his tongue between her legs, and a shiver of pleasure made her entire body twitch. She slammed her head back against the wall and gasped. Then he was stroking her clit with long laps of his tongue, and Roman couldn’t breathe. 

She couldn’t breathe. In this dim and dank alley, she could barely even see, but none of that mattered. All she could do was feel: _feel_ the wet heat of his tongue sliding into her folds and piercing through the lust-slicked flesh to lave her swollen bud. All she cared about was the feeling that his tongue was lifting between her legs, this unbelievable hum of pleasure the likes of which she hadn’t felt in months, too many months — too many months during which she’d thought about Samson and his hideous raspy laugh and his awful smirking mouth, and how much she absolutely, completely, utterly _hated_ him…

He gently tugged her clit between his lips, and her climax struck so suddenly that it took her by surprise. Her knees buckled and her fingers scrabbled against the wall for purchase, and when Samson’s hand snapped up to grip her hip, she convulsively grabbed his hand and stared unseeingly at the opposite wall, her mind rendered to unthinking slag by the waves of pleasure that were crashing through her body.

Supported by his hand on her hip, she shuddered and tried to drag in a breath through the rapture, but the pleasure was striking all the way up to her throat, and she couldn’t breathe. It wasn’t until the pulsing of pleasure began to wane that she was able to pull in a lungful of air. 

She held her breath for a second, then released it in a moan. “You’re an asshole,” she breathed. “Now fuck me already.” 

He scoffed and rose to his feet. “Is that how you thank the man who made you come so hard you almost fell down?”

His base words struck a fresh bolt of desire in her blood. “I did not. And it wasn’t that good,” she lied. 

“That hurts, Bird,” he said dryly. “You can be a real bitch sometimes.”

“Well, you can be a real fucking dick,” she retorted. She hooked her fingers into the waistband of his pants and pulled him closer, then started roughly unbuckling his belt.

He laughed, and there was something about the quality of his laugh that made something squeeze deep inside her core. “Guess we’re a good match, then,” he said.

“Shut up,” she snapped. She ripped open his trousers and pulled out his cock, then stroked it firmly with her fist. 

He grunted and thrust into her hand. Satisfied, Roman released him and started to turn around so he could fuck her from behind, but he grabbed her arm and shoved her back against the wall once more. 

“What the fu–” She broke off with a gasp; his hand was at her throat and pressing her back into the wall.

He shoved her skirt up with his other hand and stepped closer. “Lift your leg, Bird,” he gritted. “Get up on your toes.” 

His growling commands, his hand at her throat, the tantalizing brush of his cock against her belly: it was too tempting, too overwhelmingly good, and she eagerly lifted her left leg. “Don’t fucking tell me what to do,” she panted.

He released her throat and hooked his arm beneath her left knee to spread her wide, then firmly gripped her waist. “If you don’t like it, maybe you shouldn’t listen so well, _Bird,_ ” he grunted. He bent his knees slightly, then thrust up into her in a swift hard stroke.

Stars burst behind her eyes, and a guttural cry burst from her throat. Samson groaned, then pressed his forehead to hers and pumped his hips, driving his cock deep inside of her at a nearly-vertical angle that was making her deepest inner muscles quake. 

Roman gasped and whimpered, distantly aware that she shouldn’t be making this much noise but unable to stop the sounds from leaving her throat as Samson fucked her hard and deep. The angle of his cock, the rhythm of it and the familiar lyrium tang of his breath and the manly musk of his body: all of it was conspiring to bring her toward another climax that threatened to be even stronger and more mind-melting than the first. 

Samson thrust into her. “Come on, Bird,” he grunted. “Come for me so I can bend you over and fuck you from behind.”

 _Yes,_ she thought deliriously. The thought of him pushing her face-first against the wall and taking her from behind was so good, so fucking hot, it was what she wanted, just as much as she wanted his hard thick cock driving into her right now to bring her higher, just a little higher, oh fucking _fuck yes_ –

Her climax exploded from her core through her whole body, from her throat all the way down to her toes. She cried out as she came, and Samson sealed his lips over hers in a kiss. 

She jolted, shocked by his kiss and even more shocked when he delved his tongue smoothly into her mouth, but the shock wasn’t enough to stop the orgasm from ratcheting through her blood. She permitted his kiss, permitted the slide of his lips and the rasp of his stubble across her chin, and when her orgasm began to ebb, she bit his tongue.

He gasped in pain and stumbled back, pulling his cock free from her body in the process. He lifted a hand to his mouth, then spat a blood-tinged gobbet on the ground and glared at her. “What the fuck, Bird?” he demanded.

“Don’t kiss me,” she snapped. 

His face twisted with frustration. “What is your problem? What do you _want_ from me?”

He sounded genuinely frustrated, and for a second, Roman’s gut twisted. Because that was the question, wasn’t it? What _did_ she want from him? 

_Fuck this,_ she thought, and she ruthlessly shoved the troubling thought aside. “I want you to fuck me hard from behind like you said,” she told him. She raised her eyebrows in challenge. “Or was that all talk?”

His face twisted with anger. “Fine,” he said. “Fine. That’s what you want, is it? Fine.” He stepped forward and grabbed her hips, then roughly turned her around and pushed her against the wall. 

She gasped with excitement and flattened her palms on the cool bricks. Then Samson was pulling her hips back to bend her slightly at the waist, and Roman eagerly arched her spine to take him. 

“Fine,” he grunted, and he slammed himself deep inside of her. “You want me to just fuck you hard like nothing matters, then that’s what you get.” 

“Yes,” she gasped. Maker’s balls, yes, that was _exactly_ what she wanted. 

He slammed into her again. “You want me to shove myself inside of you and just — just come inside of you like there’s nothing else in the bloody world that matters,” he panted. “Is that it?”

“Yes!” she yelped. 

He drove into her again and again. “You want me to pound you into this wall and fill you up with my come so you can feel something good, eh?”

“Fucking fuck, yes!” she cried.

“Good,” Samson grunted. “That’s good, Bird. Because that’s what I want, too.” He placed one hand between her shoulder blades and pulled her hips back, then slammed into her in a furious rhythm.

Roman closed her eyes and gasped raggedly for breath. He was fucking her so hard now that his hips were meeting her ass with the rough _smack_ of skin-on-skin. In the space of a few short minutes, his thrusting cock was filling her up so thoroughly that Roman was almost mindless with bliss, as though she’d been hypnotized by the careful rhythmic slam of his cock inside her body. 

He gasped and dug his fingers into her hips, then shuddered and burst inside of her, and Roman let out a long relaxed sigh. When his body stilled, his grip on her hips loosened, and he slowly pulled out of her. A second later, she felt the distinct warmth of his seed escaping her still-tingling pussy and trailing hotly down the inside of her leg. 

Slowly and leisurely, she straightened up and turned around, then leaned back against the wall in total exhaustion. Without looking at Samson, she untied the crimson kerchief around her wrist. She usually carried a kerchief to staunch and clean the wounds she got from doing blood magic, but that wasn’t what she’d be using it for tonight. 

She reached between her legs and began mopping herself up, and only then did she look at Samson. His cock was tucked away and his trousers back in place, and he was frowning at her.

She scowled and dropped her gaze to her mopping hand. “What?” 

“You all right, Bird?” he asked.

His tone was gentle — unnervingly gentle. “I’m fine,” she said curtly. She finished wiping the insides of her thighs, then pulled her smallclothes up. She adjusted her skirt and stepped toward the mouth of the alley, but Samson took hold of her arm.

She pulled her arm away. “Don’t,” she snapped. 

He released her and tucked his hands in his pockets. “Was this a one-time thing or what?” he asked.

Her belly flipped. Did he want it to be more than a one-time thing? Did _she_ want it to become more than a one-time thing? Her body was still tingling from the delicious friction of his cock and her body felt looser than it had in… fuck, probably since she’d moved here. Maybe longer, even. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt this relaxed.

But even as she realized this, her shoulders started to tense again. This had been a good fuck, but she didn’t want it to become a regular thing. If it became a regular thing, Samson would think that she liked him, and she couldn’t let him think _that_. 

She sneered at him, then shoved her soiled kerchief into his hand. “If I get a rash from you, I’ll come for you and cut your cock off.” She started to push past him, but he stepped in front of her. 

She wilted. “What the fuck do you _want?_ ” she demanded. 

“This wasn’t for the coin, was it?” he said. 

She stared at him. “What?” she said dumbly. What coin was he talking about? 

Then she remembered — the coin she’d given him at the Hanged Man. She’d almost forgotten about that. “No,” she blurted. “For fuck’s sake, no. What kind of asshole do you take me for?” 

His face cleared slightly, but he was still frowning. “Why me, then?” 

She stared at him speechlessly for a second; the genuine bemusement in his question made something in her chest ache. Samson had described himself as broken, a broken man who was just living out his remaining shame-filled years in a haze of low-grade lyrium and resentment. But that wasn’t what Roman saw. 

She saw someone who’d been punished too many times for his good intentions. Someone who was jaded as hell, but still somehow surviving. Someone who wanted to help others, but had been stepped on too many times for the benefits to outweigh the costs. When Roman looked at Samson, she didn’t see a broken man. She saw a man who’d been kicked down more times than he deserved, but was still surviving with all the strength that his sarcasm and his wits could give him, and… damn it, she didn’t want to like him, but she did. 

And the sheer fact that she liked him — that she had such a huge fucking _vulnerability_ — was enough to make her hate him.

She shoved him aside. “Fuck off, Samson,” she said. And without looking back, she stormed out of the alley and back into the dark streets of Lowtown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Word count: 7094  
> Fuck count: 79  
> Percentage of fucks given: 1.1%
> 
> I am [Pikapeppa on Tumblr,](https://pikapeppa.tumblr.com/) and your masterful artist is [Schoute!](https://schoute.tumblr.com/) xoxo


	3. Feelings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're moving the chapters around a bit to put them in chronological order - apologies for the inconvenience!
> 
> No smut, only fluff - or as fluffy as these bastards get. 😂

Isabela pointed at a small ship in the Fereldan section of the docks. “... and you see that little skiff there? She’s a lovely little thing if you’re looking for something speedy. Perfect for smuggling. But that’s not what I want.” She sighed and leaned against a nearby salt-stained barrel. “What _I_ want is—” 

Anders interrupted her. “– a full-bodied ship that can take a good pounding, with lots of room for booty. We know.”

Isabela smirked at him. “So you _do_ listen, then. And here I thought that brain of yours was totally tied up with medicine or that mage-rights stuff.”

Anders huffed. “You say that as though you disagree with my so-called ‘mage rights stuff’. I know you agree with me, even if you won’t talk about it.” 

Isabela _tsk_ ed and folded her arms. “What’s your point?”

“My point is that you should take a stand!” Anders exclaimed. “Staying quiet about mage rights is as good as condoning their poor treatment by the Templars! Right, Hawke?” He nudged Roman with his elbow. 

Roman jolted and looked at him. “What?”

Isabela snickered. “See, even Hawke is bored of hearing you talk about this all the time.” 

“She’s not bored,” Anders retorted. “She just wasn’t paying attention.”

“That’s what being bored _means,_ you blond fool,” Isabela drawled. She pushed away from the barrel she was leaning on and sidled up to Roman. “What are you looking at, sweet thing?” 

“No one – I mean, nothing,” Roman said brusquely. 

Isabela’s eyebrow rose in a sly gesture. “No one? So you _were_ looking at someone, then.” She peered with interest in the direction that Roman had been facing. “Is it a big burly sailor? I’m willing to go halves with you if you want.”

Roman grunted and elbowed Isabela. “There’s no fucking sailor. I wasn’t looking at–”

Anders cut in. “You were looking at Samson, weren’t you?” 

Roman scowled at him, and Isabela wrinkled her nose. “Oh. Really?” 

Roman forced herself _not_ to look at Samson, who was standing by the pier about a hundred paces away and asking passersby for coin. “Mind your own fucking business,” she scolded.

Anders’s expression became serious. “Listen, Hawke. As your friend, I — look, I’m not judging you–”

“ _I_ am,” Isabela said. “Samson hasn’t got a single muscle to his name. How can he even fuck you properly when he’s so thin?”

“He’s not that thin,” Roman retorted without thinking. 

Isabela’s face lit up. “So he’s a good lay, then?”

_Damn it,_ Roman thought furiously. Why had she opened her bloody mouth? Why? 

“Maker’s fucking mercy, will you butt out?” she snapped. It had been a week since Isabela, Varric and Anders had witnessed Roman’s embarrassingly public argument with Samson at the Hanged Man — an argument that had, regrettably, ended with Roman and Samson fucking furiously in a nearby alley. 

Not that any of her companions had witnessed their tawdry but torrid alleyway fuck. But that didn’t stop Roman’s companions from jumping to conclusions that were, unfortunately, true.

Roman had hoped that her refusal to talk about it would make her companions leave her alone. The strategy had mostly worked with Varric, who had said nothing more about it than ‘let me know if you want to talk’, which was only mildly irritating.

Anders and Isabela, on the other hand, were a pair of gossipy assholes. Not that there was anything to gossip about, since Roman hadn’t spoken to Samson at all since the alleyway incident. 

“As I was saying,” Anders said with a chiding look at Isabela, “ _I’m_ not judging you. But as your friend, I should, um, warn you that _intimate_ physical contact with Samson might not be the… safest idea.”

Roman gave him a suspicious look. “What the fuck are you on about?”

Isabela wrinkled her nose. “Anders, are you sure you’re speaking as a friend and not as ‘the doctor of the free clinic who’s trying to act like he hasn’t seen Samson’s cock’?” 

Roman stared at him. “Wait, have you?”

“No,” Anders blurted. “No, I—” He clamped his lips together, then seemed to collect himself and straightened up. “I’m not at liberty to discuss my patients. But–”

Isabela interrupted him. “So Samson _has_ been your patient, then. What for? A skin rash? Something that Hawke could catch? Was it crabs? Maker, I hope it wasn’t crabs.” She turned to Roman with a grimace. “You haven’t had any itching, have you?”

“Shut up!” Roman hissed. “Just shut up, will you? Both of you.” She pointed at Isabela. “You keep the fuck out of it. I’m not giving you any dirty details.”

Isabela pouted. “You’re no fun.” 

Roman ignored her and pointed at Anders. “And _you_. Stop trying to tell me what I should or shouldn’t do. If I want to know if Samson has a… a fucking rash or something, I’ll just ask him myself.” 

“Will you really?” Anders said. “I thought you hadn’t spoken to him since the, uh, argument.”

Roman recoiled slightly. How did Anders know that? “What’s it to you?” she demanded. 

He gave her an exasperated look. “Like it or not, Hawke, I do actually consider us to be friends,” he drawled. “And guess what? Surprise! I care about my friends and their wellbeing! Who would’ve guessed?”

Isabela _tsk_ ed. “You didn’t seem to care about me too much the other day when I ran out of coin at the Blooming Rose.”

He smirked at her. “It’s not that I didn’t care. It’s that I cared more about watching you talk your way out of being thrown out by Madame Lusine.” 

Isabela rolled her eyes and turned to Hawke. “Anyway,” she said. “When you said Samson isn’t that skinny, what exactly—” 

Roman had suddenly had enough. “Shut up,” she snarled. “Shut the fuck up, okay? Leave me alone.” She turned on her heel and stormed away. 

After about five furious steps, she realized that she didn't know where she was going. She couldn’t very well storm over to Samson while Anders and Isabela were watching like greedy vultures. But she also didn’t want to leave the docks, since Samson was here. 

But why the fuck did it matter if he was here, if she wasn’t planning on talking to him?

At that moment, Samson glanced over and caught her eye.

Her belly twisted. When his usual weary expression started shifting into surprise, her guts twisted even more. 

She abruptly changed the direction she was walking and stalked away from him to the opposite end of the pier, silently cursing herself and him the entire way. 

Fifteen minutes later, when Roman was feeling a bit less rattled – and, incidentally, had confirmed that Anders and Isabela had left the docks – she made her way back along the pier in Samson’s direction. He was in the same area, but now he was sitting idly on a dilapidated crate against the shaded wall of a cheap dockside inn. Or at least it looked like he was idle. But Roman knew his habits well enough. She knew his idle-looking loitering just meant he was listening carefully to what passersby were saying, in case anyone said anything of interest that he could trade for coin or other favours. 

She stalked over to him and sat abruptly beside him on a second dilapidated crate, and he jumped. “Maker’s–” he cursed, then recoiled slightly as he recognized her. “Bird? What are you–”

She thrust a steaming and greasy newspaper-wrapped packet at him. “Here.”

His eyebrows rose. “What’s — is that fish and chips?”

“Obviously,” she said snarkily.

He frowned. “What are you giving this to me for?”

Roman gave him an exasperated look. “To do a fucking tap dance on it. What do you think? To eat it, obviously.”

Samson cautiously took the fish and chips, and Roman folded her arms. “I ate half of it. I couldn’t finish the rest.”

He opened the packet slowly, then raised an eyebrow at her. “You sure you ate half of this? Looks untouched to me.”

Roman scowled at him. “Look, d’you want it or not?”

“‘Course I do,” Samson said. “I’m not too proud to turn down my first hot meal in a week.” He gave her a twisted half-smile, then started eating. 

Roman just sat there beside him as he ate. He didn’t speak and neither did she, and by the time he was finishing his meal, Roman’s shoulders felt slightly less tense than they had all day. 

He sighed in satisfaction and crumpled up the newspaper, then glanced at her. “So. What’s happening with you?”

“What do you mean?” she said.

He shrugged. “Well, your knickers are in a twist. Who crossed you?”

She scowled. “My knickers aren’t fucking twisted. I’m fine.”

He sighed. “All right, all right. Just asking.”

The silence stretched between them again, but it was rather dour this time, and Roman began to feel a cold wriggle of guilt — a feeling that only worsened when Samson broke the awkward silence between them. “I didn’t mean anything by it, Bird,” he said quietly. “I was just wondering how you were. It’s been a minute since you came ‘round.”

Her heart squeezed in an uncomfortable way. “I’m fine,” she said again. Then she shot him a resentful look. “Why do you care, anyway?”

He arched one brow. “I did mention it’s been a while since my last hot meal, right?”

A flicker of anger came to life in her belly. “So what, I’m your fucking meal ticket? That’s why you were wondering where I was?”

“That’s not the _only_ reason,” he replied.

She glared at him in silence. His brows were drawn in a frown, but his eyes were steady on her face — unnervingly steady, in fact. 

A sudden flash of memory crossed her mind: the intensity of his stormcloud-grey eyes when he was pushing up her skirt and sliding his callused fingers up the inside of her thigh.

A flush of heat burned hotly through her limbs and throat and straight to her mouth. “Fuck you,” she burst out. 

His eyes narrowed. “No, Bird. Fuck _you_.”

She glared at him for a moment more. Then, for some reason, a snort of laughter escaped her. 

Samson stared at her. Then a slow smile crept across his narrow face. He chuckled and rubbed his stubbled chin. “Maker’s bloody balls. You’re a piece of work, you know that?”

She huffed, then settled back against the brick wall. “You sound like my uncle. _And_ my brother.”

“Well, _that’s_ not disturbing,” he drawled. 

She shot him a dirty look, then relaxed a little more at the sarcastic curl of his smile. She shifted slightly on her crate, brushing her shoulder to his in the process. “Ah, I take it back. You stink more than both of them,” she said. Never mind that she liked the unique melding of his woodsy masculine musk with the twang of lyrium that always hung around him. 

Samson clicked his tongue. “If you’re looking to cut my balls off, you’re too late. The Templars already have ‘em in storage somewhere.”

She shot him a sharp look. She hated how he always talked about the Templars like they’d defeated him. 

He glanced at her, then wilted slightly. “Ah, come on, Bird, it was a joke. Lighten up a little, will you?”

She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly before speaking again. “Let me know where your balls are stored, and I’ll get them back for you next time I go to the Gallows.” 

He chuckled again — that rough-sounding _heh-heh-heh_ that made something shiver deep in her belly. “Nice,” he said. “That was almost funny.” 

“Fuck you,” she said again, but with no ire this time. “I’m hilarious.” 

“By qunari standards, maybe,” he remarked. “Sense of humour like that, they should send you in to negotiate with that big qunari chief.” 

Roman huffed a little laugh at the idea. If anyone ever asked _her_ to talk to the qunari, she’d laugh right in their face before telling them to take a long walk off a short pier. 

They fell quiet once more, but it was an oddly peaceful silence this time, and Roman slowly realized that this was the first time all week that she hadn’t been feeling at the edge of her temper. 

Then, even more slowly, she realized that she was leaning into Samson’s shoulder, and that he wasn’t moving away. 

She could feel the heat of his arm through his threadbare shirt. A strange jittery feeling began to rattle in her belly, and she licked her dry lips and stared vacantly at the Waking Sea while the warmth of Samson’s skin bled through both of their sleeves to spread across her arm. 

She was so focused on the strange pleasantness of his arm against hers that she actually jumped when he spoke again. “Can I ask you something without you biting my head off?” he said.

She instinctively shifted away from him. “That depends. Are you going to ask me something fucking stupid?”

He gave her a weary look. “Come on, Bird. You’re breaking my balls here.”

_I thought the Templars had those,_ she thought snidely, but the seriousness of his expression stopped her from making the snarky remark. She sighed. “All right, fine. Ask your fucking question.”

“Don’t you ever…” He trailed off, then rubbed his forehead. “Maker’s balls.”

She frowned, her curiosity and nerves piqued now by his hesitation. “What?”

He sighed, then lowered his hand and gave her a frank look. “I’m askin’ this out of curiosity, all right? Not because I was a Templar.”

She scoffed and folded her arms to hide her growing discomfiture. “This is going to be good.”

He sighed again and ran his hand over his hair. Then, to her surprise, he shifted closer to her and leaned in close. “You never worry about getting possessed by demons?” he asked in a very quiet voice.

Her heart jammed itself in her throat, and she swallowed hard. “Excuse me?” she croaked.

He gave her a chiding look. “Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it.”

“Why are you asking me this?” she said in a hard tone.

“Because you’re a blood mage who’s angry all the time,” he said, very quietly. “If you was anybody else, I’d have put a royal on you being demon fodder already.” 

“What the fuck do you mean by _that?_ ” she demanded. 

“I just mean…” He faltered, then smoothed a hand over his hair once more, and Roman was vindictively satisfied to note that his expression was slowly twisting with discomfort. “I just meant you’re… you’re too smart to _not_ have thought about it, all right?” Then he made a little face. “Well, I mean… not smart enough to _not_ use blood magic, but smart enough to know how dangerous it is.”

She glared at him. There were compliments buried in what he’d said, but his judgment about her blood magic was overpowering enough to cover any praise he might have been trying to give. 

She dropped her voice to a furious whisper. “Will you fuck off for even one second about me using blood magic? I never use anyone’s blood but my own. I never do spells that are bigger than I can handle. I’m not a fucking idiot, and if you’d stop jumping down my throat every time I–” 

He cut her off with a loud groan. “Look, forget I said anything, all right? Bloody impossible trying to have a conversation with you.” He glared at her with his steely bloodshot eyes. “That’s all I was trying to do, Bird. It was just a question. It wasn’t a bloody accusation. I’m not trying to trick you and drag you off to the Gallows. It was just a question.”

_Just a question_ , he said. It sounded innocent enough, but Roman knew better; her father had long taught her and Bethany that questions about magic should never be taken at face value. It was careless and stupid of Roman to let Samson witness her use of blood magic in the first place. Ever since she’d returned from the deep roads, it had been getting harder to hide the fact that she was a mage. If it became widely known that she practiced blood magic, the blowback on her family would be bad, especially now that Carver was a fucking Templar.

But Samson had never told anyone that she was a blood mage. He’d kept this information to himself, even though he could have sold it in a heartbeat to any number of people who wanted to take Roman down a peg. And sure, maybe he picked on her once in a while about it, but his picking usually took the form of macabre jokes or sarcasm, and Roman would take dark humour over her family’s self-righteous censure any day. 

She shot Samson a dirty look, then dropped her gaze to her hands and picked at the red scarf around her wrist — one of a stock of scarves she used to mop herself up after channeling the power of her own blood. As the moments of silence ticked by, her anger gradually ebbed away, and she was able to consider the question he’d asked.

Of course she thought about being possessed by demons. It was something she thought about every time she slashed her arm to pull on a thread of the heady power that was held in her veins. But she couldn’t admit this to her family; they’d just scold or nag her even more than they already did. Admitting it to Samson, on the other hand… 

Maybe he really was just curious. Maybe he honestly did just want to have a conversation. But did she dare give him an honest answer?

Finally she sighed and folded her arms. “Sometimes I wonder if I _am_ a rage demon,” she said. “I’m so…” She broke off and looked away. 

He shifted slightly on his crate. From the corner of her eye, she could see him looking at her. But he didn’t speak, and something about his silent attention prompted her to finish her sentence. 

“I’m so fucking pissed all the time,” she said tightly. 

Samson grunted. “If you _were_ a rage demon, that would explain a lot.”

She looked at him, thrown off by his unexpected response. “Like what?”

“Like how you’re such a wildcat in the sack,” he said. “Or against the wall, I should say.”

She gaped at him, surprised that he’d mentioned their impromptu fuck so bluntly. There was a wicked slant to his eyebrows and the corners of his lips now, and for some incomprehensible reason, it made her smile. 

She scoffed and punched him in the arm. “That’s desire demons, you fucking idiot.”

He nodded. “Right, right.”

She relaxed back against the wall. “I thought you’re supposed to know that shit with your Templar training and all. Doesn’t your training include some kind of handy guidebook to demons?”

He huffed out one of those rough-sounding chuckles. “If it did, I don’t remember. Too busy passing love letters for randy mages.”

Roman smirked at him. When he gave her a little half-smile, something in her chest jolted in a way that wasn’t entirely unpleasant. 

She looked away from him and off toward the Waking Sea once more. The water was slapping gently against the ships in the harbour, and when Samson eventually spoke once more, his gravelly voice was a pleasant contrast with the water’s soft hush and flow. 

“Have you always been like this?” he asked.

“Like what?” she said.

He gestured vaguely at her. “You know. Pissy all the time.”

She wrinkled her nose at him, but despite his tactless words, his expression was quite sincere. She shrugged. “I don’t know,” she said. “A long time.” And honestly, if she was forced to think about it, she couldn’t quite put a finger on when she’d started feeling this… this persistent, low-level simmering of anger that always seemed like it was just a few words away from boiling over.

When _had_ she started feeling so angry all the time? Was it when her mother had blamed her for Bethany being torn apart by that fucking ogre? Was it when Father had died, and her mother became even more dependent and demanding? Was it further back, when the boy she’d first had sex with suddenly decided he didn’t want anything to do with her anymore? Or was it even further back than that, when she was a child and she’d first started noticing that other people’s parents didn’t talk to each other in those quiet furious voices that sounded like kettles hissing?

She swallowed the growing lump in her throat, then pinned him with a hard look. “When did _you_ start being all pessimistic and thinking your life isn’t worth shit?” she said snidely.

He recoiled slightly, then coughed out a bitter-sounding laugh. “When I joined the Templars and got put on a leash, of course.”

She turned to face him more fully. “You’re not a fucking Templar anymore.”

“As you’re always reminding me,” he drawled.

“I always mean it as a good thing, you dumbass,” she retorted. “They were better when they had you. They were better when they actually had someone who gave a fuck about people. But they’d have ruined you.” She settled back against the wall once more. “You’re better off without them.”

He gave her a deeply skeptical look. “You really think that?”

“Yes,” she said fiercely. “There’s no worse place in the world than a Chantry Circle. I’d rather be an apostate hiding for my entire life than be trapped in a fucking tower with Chantry sisters telling me I’m a sinful piece of shit for being born a mage.” 

His face was deadly serious now. “I wasn’t born that way, Bird.”

“But they made you this way,” she insisted. “It’s _their_ fault you’re on the streets. It’s not some failing of yours. You’re better than them. They — they tried to ruin you, but they didn’t, all right?”

He held up his hands in surrender. “All right, all right. Calm down before you turn into a rage demon.” 

She scoffed and punched his arm. “Fuck you.”

“Is that you asking?” he said. 

Her belly hopped with nerves, and she shot him a sharp look. This was the second time he was referencing their clinch in the alleyway.

“Come on,” he said. “Don’t act like you haven’t thought about it.” 

His expression was sly and knowing, and his raspy voice was softened with a hint of coaxing. She glared at him for a second, then shrugged irritably. “Look, I don’t know what you want from me.”

“I’m just wondering if it might happen again,” he said.

“I don’t know, okay?” she said curtly. “I don’t — I don’t know.” Fucking him had been such a stupid thing to do. Not because they’d been half-drunk or because it was in an alley, or because of whatever vague gross reasons Anders had been hinting at. It was stupid for her to fuck Samson because… ugh, because she _liked_ him. 

Roman hated the fact that she liked Samson. She hated the fact that she gave a shit what happened to him. In her opinion, there was nothing stupider you could do than get into a sexual relationship with someone you actually gave a shit about.

Samson shrugged. “Well, _I_ had a good time. That’s all I’m sayin’.”

She glowered at him, and he let out an incredulous laugh. “Andraste’s tits. It’s a compliment, Bird. What’s wrong, didn’t you enjoy it?”

His tone was mocking, and it pissed her off. But what pissed her off even more was that he was right. ‘Enjoying it’ didn’t even begin to cover how good he’d made her body feel. It was a full week after their impetuous tryst in a dank and darkened alley, and she still couldn’t stop replaying the memories of his voice panting harshly in her ear, or the blissful roughness of his hands grabbing her hips and the rough rhythm of his cock pounding into her. 

But that wasn’t the fucking point. 

She stood up abruptly. “I’ll see you,” she said tersely, and she started to walk away.

He grabbed her arm to stop her, and she glared at him. “Let me go,” she said coldly. 

He released her and leaned forward on his elbows. “I don’t think your little ‘bad habit’ has ruined you, either,” he said quietly. The corners of his lips turned up slightly. “For what it’s worth from a run-down ex-Templar, anyway.”

She stared at him, tongue-tied with her heart pounding in her ears. The way he was looking at her now, with that tiny hint of a smile and that weary look of wariness in his unnervingly clear grey eyes… 

Fuck, there was a lump in her throat again. She swallowed hard and defensively folded her arms. “So what, you’d still fuck me if I turned into an abomination?” she said sarcastically.

A crooked smile lit his gaunt face. “Sure would be a good way to go.”

She stared at him for a second longer. His stupid sick jokes actually made her want to laugh. 

And for some stupid, sick, fucked-up reason, that just made her all the more eager to leave his company, even though his company was what she’d really wanted all week.

“Whatever,” she grunted, then walked away. 

_I should just stop talking to him,_ she thought. The calm she felt sometimes from being near him was never worth the uneasy irritability that ensued after she left him behind. But she’d spent this whole week feeling increasingly irritable when she was purposely avoiding him… 

She scowled as she made her way to the Hanged Man. _This is the problem with liking someone,_ she thought. These treacherous feelings wormed their way into your brain and made your mood go all over the place, and they made you look like an idiot in front of your friends. And worst of all, they made you so fucking _vulnerable_.

This only meant one thing: Roman couldn’t fuck Samson again. No matter how much she wanted to, no matter how much her nights were interrupted by thoughts of his tongue between her legs and what he might look like naked, she couldn’t fuck him again. 

_I won’t,_ she told herself fiercely. _I won’t do it again, and that’s the end of it._ With her resolve grimly set in place, she left the docks – and Samson – behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your writer this time is [Pika,](https://pikapeppa.tumblr.com/) honoured to be writing [Schoute's](https://schoute.tumblr.com/) Romie Hawke and Sammyboi! xoxo


	4. Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A tale of how Samson ends up at Roman's house for the first time. Gorgeous art throughout by the amazing [Schoute!](https://schoute.tumblr.com/) Beware, VERY NSFW art at the end... [wiggles eyebrows]

Here is a song from the wrong side of town  
Where I'm bound to the ground by the loneliest sound  
And it pounds from within and is pinning me down

Here is a page from the emptiest stage  
A cage or the heaviest cross ever made  
A gauge of the deadliest trap ever laid

And I thank you for bringing me here  
For showing me home  
For singing these tears  
Finally I've found that I belong here

[“Home” by Depeche Mode](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DZHs-SRJbzU)

*****************************

The thug took an aggressive step closer to Samson. “Come on, you sack of shite,” he sneered. “What’s wrong, too much of a ponce to throw a punch?”

The thug’s two buddies jeered and snickered. Samson tucked his hands in his pockets and tried to look as non-threatening as possible. “Listen, fellas, I’m a waste of your time. Ain’t got a single coin to my name. I’m just trying to make a living on my corner here.” 

The thug stepped even closer. “I didn’t say you could talk back.” He glanced at his beefy buddies. “Did you ‘ear me say he could talk back?”

“I didn’t,” one crony said.

“I didn’t neither,” the other said. 

_A real brain trust we have here,_ Samson thought sourly. He wrestled his expression into a pitiful hangdog sort of look. “I wasn’t bothering no one. I swear I won’t bother you if you just let me on my merry way.” 

“Shut your fuckin’ hole,” the main thug snarled. “Unless you’re looking to die today?” 

Samson didn’t reply. After a few seconds of awkward silence, the thug curled his lip. “What, now you decide to go all quiet?” 

Samson still didn’t reply, and the thug scowled. “The fuck’s wrong with you, eh?” 

Samson gritted his teeth, then bowed his head slightly in a would-be-polite gesture. “You said to shut my hole. Just trying to accommodate.”

He should have known better than to speak. The main thug pulled a dirty switchblade from his pocket. “We got a smart one ‘ere, boys. What say we teach him a lesson?”

Samson sighed. “Come on, there’s no need–”

The thug suddenly swiped at his face with the blade. Samson instinctively lifted his left arm to deflect the blow, and a red-hot stripe of pain lashed across his forearm.

_You don’t have gauntlets anymore, idiot,_ he told himself angrily. He ignored the pain in his arm and held up his hands in surrender while backing away — backing his way toward an alley that twisted into a narrow passage that these burly thugs wouldn’t be able to follow him down. “Please,” he begged. “I’m not lookin’ for a fight here.”

The thug ignored him. “Grab him,” he said to his cronies.

The cronies stepped toward him. He backed away and prepared himself to run–

“Back the fuck off. Now.”

The harsh command came from Samson’s left, and he wilted. A second later, Roman Hawke was standing in front of him with her arms folded.

She narrowed her eyes at the three huge thugs. “I said back it up. Right now.”

Samson sighed, then edged closer to her. “Bird–”

The main thug laughed nastily. “What’s this, then? The beggar’s got himself a whore?”

Roman swelled to her full height. “What the fuck did you just call me?” she barked.

_Here we go,_ Samson thought tiredly. The main thug guffawed, then turned to his buddies. “Listen to this… hey, what’s wrong with you?”

The thug’s two friends were holding back and looking apprehensive. “That’s Hawke,” one of them said. 

The main thug frowned. “Eh?”

“It’s Hawke,” his other friend hissed. “You know, _Hawke_. The one who blew up the deep roads and took down a bunch of golems with Varric Tethras a couple months back.” He gave Roman a scared look. “I hear she’s an abomination.”

“I heard she’s a demon,” the other one said tremulously. He looked like he was ready to piss himself, and Samson had to work hard not to laugh.

The main thug scoffed, then turned back to Roman and Samson. “This scrawny–”

Roman suddenly brought her elbow up and around in a sharp swing, and her elbow collided with the thug’s face with a solid _thunk_. The thug yelped and stumbled to the ground, and Roman grabbed a fistful of his hair. “I said back the fuck off, or I’ll fucking kill you,” she snarled. “Is that clear enough for you?”

The thug whimpered and clutched his cheek, and Samson watched with a weary sort of amusement as the other two men bolted. Roman roughly shook the thug’s head. “Answer me. Is that fucking clear?”

“It’s clear, it’s clear!” the thug bleated. “Andraste’s tit, you’re hurting me!”

“Good,” Roman said vindictively. She released his hair, then kicked him in the hip for good measure. “Now fuck off before I change my mind about letting your sorry ass live.”

The thug stumbled to his feet and ran away. Samson folded his arms and gave Roman a sarcastic little smile. “My knight in shining armour,” he drawled.

She ignored him and eyed his left forearm. “Look at you. You’re a fucking mess.”

He followed her gaze. Sure enough, his arm was a mess; there was a four-inch-long jagged cut running from below his wrist toward his elbow, and it was steadily weeping blood that was soaking into the rolled-up sleeve of his shirt.

He sighed. He only had two other clean shirts to his name aside from this one. “Maker’s bloody balls,” he muttered, and he pushed his sleeve up higher on his arm. 

Roman untied the red scarf from around her wrist and held it out to him. He hesitated, then took the scarf and gingerly started wiping the blood on his arm. “I don’t need you to fight my battles for me, Bird,” he said quietly.

“Clearly you do,” she retorted. “Why the fuck didn’t you fight back when he pulled a knife on you?”

“Haven’t you ever heard of playing dead?” Samson said, only half-jokingly. “If you don’t fight back, they lose interest.”

Roman scowled at him. “Pulling a knife on you isn’t losing interest, you fucking dumbass.”

He shrugged. “Ah, I guess you’re right. Must be losing my touch.” He gave her a wry smirk, then studied his semi-clean arm.

Blood was still oozing from the wound. Samson sighed and pressed Roman’s scarf to the cut, then glanced at her. 

She was still frowning at him. He raised his eyebrows. “What?”

“You need to get that treated,” she said.

He shrugged. “It’ll stop bleeding on its own.”

“It’s too deep and long to stop,” she retorted. 

A dirty comment rose to his mind, but he didn’t dare to say it, especially as Roman was still talking. “You keep moving your arm, that wound’ll keep opening back up again. You need stitches.”

He clicked his tongue. “Bird–”

She cut him off. “You want it to get infected and for your arm to get gangrene and fall off? Fine. Be my guest.” 

He frowned at her, then exhaled loudly and lifted his eyes to the sky. “Fine. Fine, I’ll get it bloody well stitched up, all right?” 

She shrugged, and they started walking – both in different directions. 

Samson paused, and Roman shot him a quizzical look. “Where are you going?” she asked.

“To Anders’ clinic,” he said blankly. He frowned at her. “Where were _you_ going?”

“To my house,” she said, to his surprise. “I was going to…” She paused and hunched her shoulders. “I can stitch a wound,” she muttered.

He raised his eyebrows. Wait, did that mean… was Roman was inviting him to her house? That was the last thing he’d expected. But why was she offering to stitch him up if she could just pawn him off on Anders? 

He ought to say no. He ought to just go to Anders’ clinic in Darktown like he usually would. He often told Roman he wasn’t proud enough to say no to charity, but for some reason as the years had gone on, he’d started to wish he didn’t need to rely on Roman’s pity to survive. 

An invitation to her house, though… What must her house be like? Samson knew she’d never wanted to live in the Amell’s Hightown mansion; she hated Hightown. How had the rough-and-ready Roman Hawke decorated the big fancy house she didn’t even want? 

“You know what, forget it,” Roman said suddenly. 

Samson looked at her. Her shoulders were hunched up almost to her ears, and her cheeks were turning pink. She glared at him. “Forget I said anything. Go to Anders, see if I care. I was just–”

“No,” he blurted. “I — er. If you, um. If you want to stitch me up, I’d be much obliged.” 

“I don’t _want_ to,” she snapped. “I was just offering. Do what you want, I don’t care.”

He scowled at her. She was so surly and so fucking _confusing_. He really would be better off going to Anders’ clinic on his own. It would be much less of a headache.

Curiosity about her house finally got the better of him, however. “Bird, I’d be thankful if you stitched me up, all right?”

She gave him a hard stare, then finally relaxed her shoulders and jerked her head in the direction of Hightown. “Come on, then.”

They made their way through Lowtown in a rather dour silence. As they were walking through the Hightown market, Roman finally spoke. “Seriously though, why didn’t you just fight back?”

He gave her a chiding look. “You saw my odds, right? Three against one ain’t something to sneeze at.”

“You still should have fought back,” she insisted. “I know you’re trained in combat. You could have done some real damage if you wanted to.”

“I didn’t _want_ to,” he said doggedly. “I told you, I was hoping he’d lose interest. Berks like that want to make themselves feel big by beatin’ up someone smaller. The more beaten you look, the faster they lose interest.” He shrugged and peeked at the wound again, then pursed his lips; it was still bleeding. 

He pressed her scarf to the wound once more. “Sometimes being invisible is better than being strong. Not that you’d know anything about being invisible,” he muttered.

She shot him a sharp look. “What do you mean with _that_ crack?”

“You’re a bloody wildcat who doesn’t know how to stay out of a fight, that’s what,” he said bluntly.

“Well, _you_ suck at being invisible if you’re getting stabbed,” she retorted.

“Are you going to break my balls all the way to your fancy house?” he complained. “If that’s the case, I’d rather my arm get the rot, thanks very much.”

Roman glared at him, then said nothing more for the rest of the walk. It was awkward enough that Samson half considered turning around and not coming the rest of the way with her, but his wound was still bleeding freely, so he suffered the unpleasant silence until they reached her house. 

She unlocked the door and shoved it open, then started pulling off her boots. “Lock it behind you,” she said gruffly. 

Samson closed and locked the door. A moment later, Roman’s mabari came barrelling through the foyer toward them.

Monty barked happily, and Roman smiled faintly as she rubbed his jowls. “There’s the good boy,” she crooned. She rubbed the mabari’s ears while he wagged his tail, and Samson studied Roman’s rare smile from the corner of his eye. 

Monty licked Roman’s cheek before looking up at Samson, and Samson stood there awkwardly as the mabari approached him. He’d met Monty several times before, but it never paid to take a mabari’s acceptance for granted. 

He cautiously held out his hand. “Dog,” he greeted. 

Monty sniffed his fingers, then licked his hand and trotted away, and Samson released his breath. 

“Come on,” Roman said, and she padded silently into the house. 

Samson looked around with unabashed interest as he followed her. The Amell mansion looked… nothing like Roman, in fact. The walls were done in a delicate pink-and-gold wallpaper, and the furniture was clearly expensive but pretty standard for a noble’s house. Most of the floors were carpeted, and Samson awkwardly studied the trail of dirt that his filthy shoes had left behind. There were a few paintings on the walls, but they were boring pastoral scenes. There was a writing desk in the corner that was covered in a mess of letters that Samson suspected was Roman’s workspace, but aside from that, he wouldn’t have guessed that Roman lived here. 

“Not what I’d have expected from a dog lord,” he remarked.

She wrinkled her nose at him. “My mother’s family are Kirkwall nobles, not Fereldans.”

“Ah, right.” He studied the elaborate chandelier that hung over the main room, then looked her in the eye. “This place doesn’t look like you.”

She raised her eyebrows. “What the fuck were you expecting? Half-melted candles and bowls of blood in every corner?”

He smirked at her sarcastic tone. “Yeah, that’s right. Maybe some ritual circles painted on the floor. But I guess that would make a mess of your nice carpet ‘ere.”

She snorted, and Samson raised his eyebrows in surprise. Had he actually managed to make her laugh? Unfortunately, he couldn’t check; she’d turned away and was disappearing into the kitchen.

He followed her. She was arranging some items on the kitchen island, a towel and a needle and thread, and Samson leaned casually against the island as she filled a porcelain bowl with hot water.

Monty sat beside him and leaned against his leg. Samson warily looked at the mabari for a second before gingerly patting his furry head. “I thought there’d be servants,” he said to Roman. “Big house like this? Must be a lot for your mum to manage on her own.”

Roman scoffed. “She doesn’t–” She broke off suddenly, and Samson raised his eyebrows. 

When she spoke again, her tone was gruff. “We do have a couple of servants. But they’re probably at the market. They sell enchanted items on the side.” 

_Enchanted items?_ He raised his eyebrows. “You’re talking about the dwarves, right? Bodahn and the simple one? They work for you?”

Roman shot him a hard look. “Sandal’s not simple. He’s just… he doesn’t talk much.”

Samson held up his hands. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to offend.”

She didn’t reply. She placed the bowl of hot soapy water on the counter, then gestured for him to come closer. “Give me the scarf.” 

He sidled up beside her and handed her the scarf, and she immediately tossed it in the fire in the kitchen hearth. 

Samson raised his eyebrows. “You burn those?”

She looked up from the bowl of soapy water, which she was dipping a washcloth into. “Huh?”

He jerked his chin at the fire. “The scarves. You burn them? I thought you just washed ‘em after mopping yourself up.” 

She shook her head and wrung out the washcloth. “Too risky. Leaving any blood lying around is like asking some fucked-up asshole to use it against you.” She roughly took his arm and started wiping it clean.

He flinched, and Roman paused. “Hold still,” she muttered, and she wiped the wound more gently. 

He watched her face for a moment before speaking. “You’re telling me that you, the blood mage, are worried about other people using blood magic against you?”

She shot him a venomous look. “Mages aren’t the only ones who use blood for shitty reasons. Don’t think I don’t know all about Templars and the way they use those fucking phylacteries.”

Samson raised an eyebrow. “It was mages who came up with the phylacteries.”

“You think they came up with that by choice?” Roman snapped. “There’s no fucking way they came up with that idea of their own free will. It’s the Templars and the Chantry who _use_ the phylacteries. Those fucking things are just as much of a leash for the mages as lyrium is for the fucking Templars.” She went back to wiping his arm.

He sighed and leaned against the island. “Yeah, well…” He trailed off.

She paused in her ministrations. “What, no clever fucking comeback?”

He shot her a weary look. “I’m tired, Bird. I’m not in the mood for a comeback.”

She pursed her plump lips, then went back to cleaning his arm. When his arm was free of blood, she dropped the washcloth in the bowl of water and looked at him. “You agree with me, don’t you? You think phylacteries are fucked up, too.”

He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter what I think. It doesn’t change anything.” He studied the smarting wound on his arm. Maker’s balls, it was still bleeding slightly. It was a good thing Roman had insisted that he get it stitched up.

She didn’t reply. Samson finally looked up and met her gaze, and his heart did a funny little twist behind his ribs. The way she was eyeing him was… she looked less pissed than usual. Her pitch-dark eyes were as bottomless and deep as always, but she was looking at him in that way she did on occasion — looking at him like she was seeing someone whose opinions were worthy of respect. Like he was someone whose presence in the world could be worth some good.

She was looking at him like he was someone he wasn’t. 

His heart felt like it was migrating up toward his throat. He swallowed hard and gestured at his arm. “Well?” he said roughly. “You going to stitch me up then or what?”

When her usual scowl returned, it was almost a relief. “I’m going to freeze your arm a little,” she said. “Just the surface of the skin to numb it.” Without waiting for an answer, she placed her palm over his open wound. The skin instantly started to cool, and Samson waited tensely as his arm grew colder and colder. 

Finally, when the smarting pain of his wound had nearly turned into a smarting pain of cold instead, she lifted her hand. Without speaking, she silently threaded the needle she’d brought, then started sewing up the cut. 

He clenched his jaw as she worked. Despite his chilled arm, he could still feel a tiny pinch of pain every time the needle pierced his skin, but he didn’t want to point it out in case Roman got angry and told him to leave. 

Then he wondered why he even wanted to stay. She always made him so bloody _tired_ with her constant scowl and the way she was always picking arguments with him. And she was such a hypocrite, trying to insist that his life was worth something when she was always cutting her own arms and throwing herself into nearly-fatal situations as though she didn’t care what happened to her.

He pursed his lips and looked away from her. When the stitching was done, she took a roll of linen strips and bandaged his arm, then stood back and folded her arms. “Done,” she said. 

He inspected his bandaged arm, then tucked his hands in his pockets and looked up at her once more. “Thanks, Bird.”

She nodded. She didn’t say anything more, and as the silence stretched on, Samson started to feel awkward. 

He took a step back. “Well, er. I’ll–”

“Have you eaten?” she said. 

He paused. “You mean today, or…?”

Her eyebrows jumped up. “When was the last time you ate?”

He hesitated and tried to remember. “Yesterday. Yeah, that’s right, I think I ate yesterday. I…” He trailed off. She’d walked over to the kitchen hearth and was stirring the contents of the cast-iron pot that was hanging over the fire. 

She grunted, then went to a cupboard and pulled out a dish, and Samson watched in bemusement as she returned to the pot and ladled some of its contents into the dish. She returned to the kitchen island and plonked the dish of stew in front of him, then rifled around in a drawer and thrust a spoon at him.

“Eat it,” she said. “If the meat’s tough, too bad. I think it’s supposed to cook for a few more hours.”

He stared at her for a second. There was a lump in his throat again. He must be getting sick.

He gingerly took the spoon. “What’s with the hospitality?”

“What are you talking about?” she said sulkily.

He jerked his chin at the spool of thread and the bowl of bloody water. “This amateur healer business, the food… you’re being real hospitable today, Bird.”

She glowered at him. “Look, if you don’t want the stew, you can just get the fuck out of my house. No one’s stopping you.”

For some perverse reason, her hostility made him feel more at ease than her kindness. He dipped his spoon into the stew. “And turn down a free hot meal? Not a chance.” He blew on the stew and took a bite. The meat _was_ rather stringy; it clearly needed to simmer for a few hours more, as she’d said. But it was still the best thing he’d eaten in weeks. 

He took another big bite of stew and burned his tongue, then forced himself to slow down. Roman leaned back against the island and folded her arms, and Samson eyed her from the corner of his eye while he ate. 

She glanced at him, and her eyebrows creased into a scowl. “What?” she demanded. “Why are you staring at me?”

He chewed slowly to stall for time. He couldn’t tell her he was admiring the way her stubborn jawline blended into the delicate line of her neck. 

He finally swallowed his mouthful of stew. “Can I take a bath while I’m here?” he said.

She curled her lip at him, just as he’d known she would. “What the fuck does this look like to you, a boarding house?”

He lifted his loaded spoon. “I’m askin’ for your benefit, Bird. You’re the one always complaining about how I smell.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, and he slowly chewed another bite of stew as he waited for her response. Finally she unfolded her arms and sighed loudly. “For fuck’s sake. Fine. You can use the bath in my room. Come upstairs when you’re done.” She pushed away from the counter and patted Monty’s head before leaving the kitchen, and Samson watched in mild surprise as she walked away. He honestly hadn’t been sure if she would agree or if she’d just tell him to get the fuck out. 

He quickly finished his stew, then scratched Monty’s ears and made his way toward the stairs. He headed up to the one open door on the second floor and peered cautiously into the bedroom.

He instantly recognized it as Roman’s room. The decor was a stark contrast with the rest of the house: it was lush and dark and eclectic, bursting with furniture and fabrics that looked like she’d picked them up piecemeal over the years instead of trying to foster a cohesive theme. The wallpaper was dark red with an intricate grey pattern of curlicues. The bed was dark mahogany hung with heavy rust-red velvet curtains. The curtain was drawn across the window, leaving the room dimly by with the warm glow of candles and an oil lantern despite it being the middle of the afternoon. An ornately framed full-length mirror was propped carelessly in one corner, and in another corner was a fancy version of the sort of folding screen that Samson had seen at the Blooming Rose for the prostitutes to change their clothes. Roman’s folding screen was draped with a multitude of scarves: scarves that he rarely saw her wear, aside from the crimson ones she tied around her wrist. 

He slid his hand into his pocket and self-consciously rubbed his thumb over the crimson scarf he kept in his pocket — the same one Roman had used to mop herself up after that one time they’d had sex in the alley. She’d shoved the dirty scarf into his hand, and Samson still wasn’t sure why he’d kept it. He’d even used some precious soap to wash it out, and now it was tucked deep in the pocket of his trousers where he always carried it. 

He stepped into her bedroom and followed the sound of running water to the en-suite washroom. Roman was sitting on a wooden stool while the bathtub filled up, and Samson could see the faint red glow of runes around the bottom of the tub.

He raised his eyebrows. “Is that an enchanted bathtub?”

She shrugged. “It came with the house.”

He leaned against the doorjamb. “You really are the upper crust now, eh? Golden chandeliers, enchanted bathtub… must be nice.”

She frowned at him. “The bathwater doesn’t have to be hot, you know. I can chill the water if you’d rather freeze your balls off.” She held up one hand, and a little ball of ice appeared over her open palm.

Samson shot her a chiding look. “And you wonder why people are afraid of apostates.”

She scoffed and threw the ball of ice into the tub, where it promptly melted. “I _know_ why people are afraid of apostates. Because they’re fucking sheep to the Chantry.” 

He huffed. “Should’ve seen that one coming, I s’pose.” He shucked his vest and started kicking off his shoes while pulling his shirt over his head. 

“Oh, for fuck’s — you’re not even going to wait until I leave the room?” Roman demanded.

He winced as his sleeve brushed over his freshly-bandaged arm, then glanced at her unconcernedly. “Why bother? I’m not modest.” He smirked. “Are you shy, Bird? You going to blush like a country milkmaid or something when my cock comes out?”

“No,” she said loudly. 

He shrugged. “All right then.” He unlaced his trousers and shamelessly pushed them down. In truth, he’d long grown used to taking baths in front of other people — first the communal baths in the Templar barracks, then in the one half-decent public bathhouse in Lowtown when he could spare the coin to bathe.

Roman scoffed and folded her arms. “If this is your way of trying to get me to fuck you again, it’s not working.”

He shot her a scathing look. “Relax. I’m not trying to trick my way into your twisted knickers.” Not that he would say no if she were ever to offer, but he knew better than to get his hopes up about anything anymore. 

He stepped into the tub and immediately sighed in relief. “Damn, that’s nice,” he groaned. 

“Don’t get that bandage wet,” Roman scolded. 

“I know, I know,” he said. He really hoped she wasn’t going to nag him the whole time he was bathing. 

He kept his left forearm above the water and submerged himself, and for a few long seconds, he enjoyed the way the hot water pricked his scalp and the skin of his face. He slowly broke the surface of the water and rubbed his face with his right hand, then opened his eyes. 

Roman was still sitting on her stool next to the basin with her arms folded. Samson lifted one eyebrow at her. “Are you going to watch me to make sure I don’t piss in your bathtub or something?” He reached for the soap and started washing his arms.

Her face twisted with disgust. “Why would you even suggest that? Is that something that you would usually do?”

“No, Bird,” he said flatly. “But I’ve seen some things at the bathhouse, let me tell you.”

Her pouty lips twisted even more. “Don’t bother. I don’t want to hear it.”

“Probably for the best,” he said. He washed his chest and his back as best he could with one arm, then started washing his hair. 

She _tsk_ ed. “Don’t use the soap for that.”

He looked up at her. “Why not?”

“There’s shampoo,” she said slowly, like she was talking to an idiot. “Use the fucking shampoo.”

He sighed, then put the bar of soap down and picked up the glass bottle of shampoo. He poured a measure of it into his palm, and the scent of it pulled at something deep in his belly. 

It smelled sweet and smooth, almost like the filling in those amandine croissants that the Orlesians made: like warm vanilla and almonds.

It smelled like Roman’s hair.

Maker’s balls, his cock was starting to get hard. He was suddenly grateful that Roman couldn’t see his body over the high edges of the tub. He inhaled the shampoo fragrance once more, then started washing his hair. 

A few seconds later, Roman tutted again. “You’re not doing it right. You’re not washing the roots.”

He lowered his hand and shot her annoyed look. “I’m a bloody grown man. I know how to wash my own hair.”

“Apparently you don’t. You’re only washing the surface of your hair,” she said. “You need to wash your fucking scalp.”

“I’ve only got one hand,” he complained.

“So?” she said snidely.

He glared at her. “If you’re such a bloody expert, why don’t you come and do it for me, eh?” 

She glared back at him, then stood up. “Fine,” she spat. “Fine, I will.” To his immense surprise, she dragged her stool over to the tub behind his head and sat down bad-temperedly, then held out her hand. “Give me the fucking shampoo and dunk your head.”

He dumbly did as he was told. When he emerged from the water once more, Roman slid both of her hands into his wet hair.

He tensed slightly, expecting her to roughly scrub his hair. What he _didn’t_ expect was gentleness. 

She pressed the tips of her fingers into his scalp and started to rub in a slow and careful massage. She stroked her fingers through his hair and started lathering it carefully, and Samson sat stock-still in the tub, paralyzed by how fucking _gentle_ she was being. 

“Tilt your head back,” she said quietly.

He silently obeyed her. She smoothed the water and shampoo away from his forehead, and then her fingers were moving in a careful circular motion from his temples toward his nape. To his horror, he suddenly felt like crying. 

There was a pressure in his chest, like a weight that seemed to be throbbing up toward his throat. As Roman continued to gently massage his scalp and run her fingers through his hair, the ache in his chest only seemed to worsen.

Samson closed his stinging eyes. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had touched him this gently. Had he ever been touched this way before – in a way that insipid romance novel writers might almost call tender, if it was anyone else doing the touching other than the rough and cranky Roman Hawke? 

He swallowed hard. “I thought you’d be pulling my hair by now, Bird,” he said. His voice was husky to his own ears, and he hoped she wouldn’t notice. 

She huffed. “Unlike you, I know how to wash hair. I told you, you were doing it wrong.”

He grunted in response. If the gentle work of her fingers was right, then he’d definitely been doing it wrong. 

“How d’you know how to wash other people’s hair?” he asked. “You used to help your mum with washing Carver and Bethany?” 

“No,” she said shortly.

He waited for her to say more, but when she didn’t speak, he glanced over his shoulder at her. 

She was scowling. When she met his eye, her scowl deepened. “Don’t look at me,” she said defensively. 

He turned around with a sigh. “I was just making conversation,” he grumbled. “I wasn’t trying to piss you off.” 

She said nothing in return, but she kept combing her fingers through his hair and running her nails gently over his scalp, and Samson eventually just relaxed into the soothing touch of her hands. His hair must be clean by now, and he should probably ask why she was still massaging his head. But it just felt… Maker, it felt too damned good, and he knew that the moment he asked what she was doing, she would pull her hands away. 

He closed his eyes once more. Her hands continued to stroke and smoothe their way across his scalp and down to the back of his neck, and it was hardly a stretch for him to imagine her hands stroking other parts of his body just as intimately. 

A flare of longing came to life low in his gut. A few heartbeats later, his cock was unfurling and straightening in the bathwater.

He shifted restlessly, annoyed at himself for getting horny and at _her_ for making him feel this way. Then she pushed on the crown of his head. “Rinse,” she said. 

He sank into the bathwater and used his right hand to rub the shampoo out of his hair. When he rose to the surface once more, Roman was on her feet and moving toward the door. 

“You can have some of Carver’s old clothes,” she said. “He doesn’t need them anymore as a fucking Templar.” She left without looking at him or waiting for a response. 

He sighed, then sat there in the cooling bathwater for a moment and brooded over his traitorous cock and the traitorous heavy feeling in his chest. He eventually dragged himself out of the bath and pulled the drain, then started drying his hair with the towel she’d left on the edge of the basin.

His idle gaze fell on his clothes that he’d abandoned on the floor, and he paused. He considered putting on his own clothes rather than taking even more charity from Roman, but now that he was clean and his hair smelled like vanilla and almonds, he could really see what Roman was talking about when she complained about his smell.

He sighed, then wandered back into her bedroom as he rubbed his hair. A second later, she opened the bedroom door and came back in with an armful of clothes. 

“This stuff might be too big, but maybe–” She stopped short, and her eyes fell straight to his groin. She stared at his upright cock for a second before raising her eyes back to his face, and he hunched his shoulders. 

“Don’t look at me like I’m some kind of monster,” he said defensively. “It’s your fault, anyway.”

She lifted one eyebrow. “How is your hard-on _my_ fault?”

He couldn’t tell her it was the way she’d been stroking his hair. He felt perverted enough already just from the way she was eyeing him. “Just… I’m a man, all right?” he muttered. “Can’t always control my own knob.” He tied the towel around his waist. 

She dropped the pile of clothes on the bed. “Pick what you want from there,” she said. 

He glanced at Carver’s hand-me-downs. “Thanks,” he muttered. He reached for the closest piece of clothing, intent on putting clothes on as quickly as possible. But before he could pick anything from the pile of clothes, Roman stepped closer to him.

He shied away from her. “What are you doing?” he said suspiciously. 

“I thought you weren’t modest,” she said.

He double-taked at her. “Eh?”

She reached for the towel around his waist, and he was so stunned that he didn’t stop her when she pulled it off.

She shoved his hip. “Sit down.”

He sat dumbly on the edge of the bed. When Roman dropped to her knees in front of him, his whole brain seemed to freeze with disbelief. This wasn’t real, was it? Maybe he’d drowned himself in the bathtub and this was some kind of out-of-body thing. 

His throbbing cock felt real enough, though. And when Roman suddenly grabbed his shaft, he gasped with pleasure. 

Well, _that_ was certainly real. 

She pumped her fist along his length, and he clenched his fingers in the blankets. “Bird–”

She suddenly took his cock in her mouth, and it felt so fucking _good_ that his vision actually went black for a second. His mouth fell open in a silent moan – silent because he’d forgotten how to breathe. Roman was suckling him, those plush red lips of hers moving up and down his cock, and he couldn’t – his body couldn’t – it was like his body could only handle so many tasks, lungs moving and heart beating and his arms keeping him upright, and when the velvet heat of Roman’s mouth on his cock was added to the mix, something had to give, and apparently it was his ability to breathe. 

Samson stared stupidly at her as her lips moved up and down the length of his shaft. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d gotten a blowjob – certainly not for several years. And now here he was, an ex-Templar beggar addicted to lyrium with no home and barely a coin to his name, sitting on a bed in Hightown while a pretty woman at least ten years younger than him was sucking his cock.

He must be dreaming. Maybe he’d fallen asleep in the bathtub. It was the only possible explanation. 

Roman fondled his balls and angled her head over his lap to take his cock deeper in her throat, and Samson finally dragged in a lungful of air. He released it in a pleasured groan and gave in to the silken smoothness of her throat, savouring the way she squeezed him when she swallowed with the head of his cock all the way at the back of her tongue. A couple of minutes later, when his growing climax was trembling in his limbs to the point that he couldn’t take it anymore, he reached down and slid his fingers into her hair.

She growled around a mouthful of his cock, and he exploded in her mouth with a helpless cry. She swallowed his come without pausing the smooth up-and-down of her lips along his shaft, and when his trembling had stilled and he could finally open his eyes again, he curled his fingers in her hair and pulled. 

She released his cock with a gasp and pushed his hand away from her hair, then stood up and folded her arms, and Samson studied her belligerent posture with a reckless sort of laziness. It almost felt as though she had swallowed not only his release, but also some of the jaded disbelief that had been stopping him from asking her again to fuck him.

No, not asking. He’d only had her once, but already he had a visceral sense of what she really wanted, and it wasn’t to be _asked._

He boldly met her gaze. “Take your clothes off, Bird.”

A tiny sardonic smile touched the corners of her lips. She scoffed at him and turned away.

He stood up and grabbed her arm. “Take them off now,” he said.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” she snapped.

She was glaring at him, but importantly, she hadn’t pulled her arm out of his grip. He pulled her closer until they were almost nose to nose. 

“Roman,” he growled, “take your bloody clothes off right now.”

She bared her teeth and leaned in closer. “Make me,” she hissed.

_Gotcha,_ he thought vindictively. Without warning, he kissed her hard. 

She gasped and parted her lips, and Samson blissfully delved his tongue into her mouth. Half a second later, Roman bit his tongue. 

He gasped in pain and recoiled from her. He couldn’t taste blood in his mouth, but _fuck_ , that had hurt. 

He glared at her. She was smirking again and watching him in an obnoxiously arrogant way, and Samson finally snapped. 

He grabbed her arm again and pulled her close, then started roughly pulling her shirt out of her trousers. “Take this shirt off or I’ll rip it. I swear I will,” he threatened. 

She scoffed and tried to shove his hands away. “You wouldn’t fucking dare.”

He fisted his hands in the deep v-neck collar of her shirt and started to pull, and she grabbed his wrists. “Fine!” she blurted. “Fine, for fuck’s sake, don’t rip my shirt.” She pulled the shirt off and tossed it on the floor, leaving her torso bare except for a surprisingly lacy little bra covering her nearly-flat chest.

She gave him a withering look. “You’re such a fucking asshole.”

He chuckled, then pulled aside the cup of her bra and ducked his head low to nip her tidy little breast. She gasped and grabbed his shoulder, and Samson dragged his tongue over her nipple before taking it in his mouth. He sucked hard on her nipple and savoured the sharp sound of her moan and the sharp bite of her nails in his shoulder until she shoved him away. 

She glared at him, and he watched in satisfaction as her chest rose and fell with her heavy breaths. “You’re going to leave toothmarks on my tit, you dick,” she accused.

“I sure hope so,” he said snarkily. He grabbed her by the waist and shoved her down on the bed. “Trousers off, or I’ll rip those off too.”

She scoffed and propped herself up on her elbows. “These are leather. You couldn’t rip them off if you were a fucking qunari.”

He crawled onto the bed so he was straddling her hips, effectively trapping her beneath his body. Then he reached down and curled his fingers carefully around her throat. 

She gasped, and he smiled slowly at her. “Take the trousers off, Bird. I know you want to.”

She arched her spine. “I do not,” she panted. 

He gently squeezed her throat until her eyelids fluttered. “Yes you do,” he taunted. “You want to take them off, because you know what’ll happen when you do.”

She glared at him, but her restlessly twisting hips betrayed her. “What?” she said belligerently. “What’ll happen?”

He tipped her chin back. “I’ll bury my face in your pussy and lick you until you’re begging me to fuck you,” he growled.

She let out a harsh little laugh. “I’m not going to beg you for anything. I don’t _beg_.”

He huffed, then pressed gently on her throat to force her down onto her back. By the time she was flat on her back, she was practically gasping for breath, and her bottomless black eyes were feverish and unfocused. 

He leaned in close to her. “Take the trousers off _now,_ ” he snarled.

“Fuck you,” she whimpered, but she finally reached down and started unlacing her trousers. 

He shifted his position over her body so she could untie her laces. Once the laces were undone, he released her throat and shifted to a kneeling position between her legs.

He curled his fingers into her unlaced trousers and dragged them down. He ran his palms up along the smoothness of her thighs, then shoved her legs apart and bit the inside of her thigh.

“Ow!” she yelped. She reached down and grabbed a fistful of his hair. “You fucking asshole–” 

He ran his tongue smoothly along the length of her sex, and she broke off with a moan and twisted her hips eagerly toward his face. 

Samson lifted his mouth and smirked at her. “I knew you wanted this, you bloody wildcat.”

She bucked her hips toward his face. “Shut the fuck up and lick me,” she gasped. 

He chuckled and lowered his face between her legs once more. He kissed her sloppily, taking all her musky wetness onto his lips until he could taste her at the back of his tongue, then swirled his tongue around her clit.

She fisted her hands in the blankets and thrust her hips toward his mouth, breathing hard all the while, and Samson eventually looked up again. “Look at you, trying to fuck my face,” he taunted. “I knew you wanted this, even when you was acting like you didn’t.” 

She gasped and arched her spine, then glared down at him. “Stop fucking talking!”

He scoffed, then teasingly smoothed his fingers over her swollen folds. “So bloody rude all the time. I’m going to make you change your tune.”

She bucked her hips and let out a snarling little laugh. “Never.”

He grinned at her, then gripped her hips to hold her still. He lowered his head once more, but instead of licking her, he nipped the skin of her inner thigh with his teeth.

She yelped and tried to buck her hips, but Samson firmly held her down and sucked the skin of her inner thigh between his teeth. 

“Fuck,” she gasped. “Fuck fuck — Maker’s fucking balls, _ah!_ ” She reached down and grabbed a fistful of his hair, but she didn’t pull him away, so Samson kept sucking at the tender patch of skin. A few seconds later, he released her and inspected her inner thigh.

Her skin was marred with a small purpling bruise in the shape of his teeth. He smirked, then looked up at her. “I left toothmarks,” he said. “Now what are you going to do?”

She sneered at him, and he noted the wildness of her eyes with a surge of heated satisfaction. She pulled his hair and tried to buck her hips again. “Lick me, you asshole,” she commanded. 

He brushed his lips teasingly over her clit, but instead of licking her as she’d asked, he turned his head and bit the skin of her other thigh. She let out a sharp little gasp, and when he started sucking and nipping her skin, she moaned. 

“F-fuck…” Roman scratched his scalp and parted her legs even wider, and his cock started to stir once more at her obvious eagerness. He sucked on her skin, and when he eventually lifted his mouth, the sight before him was enough to straighten his cock completely. 

Roman was slick and soaking wet for him, and on her inner thighs were two matching hickeys in the shape of his mouth, like two perfects brands framing her sex.

He snickered, and Roman strained toward him with a moan. “Come on, Samson, don’t be such a fucking tease,” she whined. 

He lifted an eyebrow. “That almost sounded like begging.”

“It wasn’t,” she snapped. “I’m _telling_ you what to do, you asshole. Put your mouth on me!”

He _tsk_ ed. “All right, all right. Calm down, Bird.” He dragged his tongue roughly along the length of her folds to make her flinch, then gently traced his tongue around her clit. 

She shivered and widened her legs even more and arched her spine, and Samson focused on the dual pleasures of his throbbing cock and her swollen little clit against his mouth. He brushed the little bud with his lips and teased it with his tongue, and when Roman suddenly shuddered and cried out, he slid one finger inside of her.

She jolted and clenched her fingers in his hair. “Samson, fuck me!”

He lifted his mouth and pulled her hand away from his hair, then curled his finger inside of her. “Not until you beg me nicely, Bird,” he taunted.

She moaned and bucked her hips, then reached down and dragged her nails along his unwounded right arm, and he gasped as the pain rippled across his skin. Incensed by her scratch, he pulled his finger free from her body and stood up. 

He crawled onto the bed to join her, and she gasped excitedly as she shuffled back on the bed to accommodate him. “Come on, come on,” she panted, and she reached for his cock.

He knocked her hand away, then grabbed her hips and pulled her close before roughly looping her legs over his arms. A second later, he was looming over her, her body trapped and helpless beneath him with her knees hooked over his elbows. 

He rubbed his cock between her legs, and she jolted and dug her nails into his chest. “Samson, fuck me!” she cried.

“No,” he snapped. He slid his cock through the slickness of her folds and forced himself not to moan at how good she felt, then gave her a stern look. 

“Say ‘please’,” he said. 

She laughed in his face. “Never,” she snarled.

He sneered at her, then slid his cock more slowly through her wetness — bloody Maker’s balls, she was so fucking wet that she made _him_ want to beg. He pumped his hips slowly through her silky wetness, then pressed the very tip of his cock inside of her.

He groaned at the blissful heat of her pussy embraced the tip of cock. Roman gasped and tried to buck her hips, but she could barely move with her legs hooked over his arms. “Yes,” she yelped. “Yes yes, come on, come _on_...”

He clenched his jaw and forced himself not to move. “Not until you beg,” he gritted.

She mewled and wiggled her hips and clawed his chest, and he gasped as the pain pulsed through his cock as a flare of pleasure. “Come on, Bird, sing me a pretty song,” he coaxed. 

“No!” she yelled. 

With a huge effort of will, he pulled his cock out of her, and she sobbed. “Fine, fine, please!” she wailed. “Fuck me, please!”

_Finally,_ he thought, and he slammed into her. 

A visceral cry burst from her lips, and Samson shuddered at the sound of her pleasure and the silken heat of her pussy. He pumped into her and gasped – Maker’s balls, she was so _tight_ , tighter and wetter than he remembered, and he had been thinking about this a _lot_ but it was still even better than he remembered… 

He pumped into her again and again, and then he was fucking her in a desperate blur, so aroused and so pleasured by her inimitable heat that he couldn’t control his pace. Her breathing was a sharp staccato gasp in his ear and her nails were digging into his biceps now instead of his chest, and fuck, _fuck_ , it felt so fucking _good_. 

She scratched his arms. “You got me to beg, you asshole,” she gasped. “Are you happy now?”

Her voice was snarky but breathless with pleasure, and Samson couldn’t help but smile. “I am, yeah,” he said smugly. He lowered himself to his elbows, curling her pelvis even more, then thrust into her again.

She cried out sharply and dug her nails into his arms, and Samson fucked her for a second longer before kissing her. He pumped into her and blissfully licked her tongue and savoured the plumpness of her lips–

She bit his lower lip. He gasped and tried to pull away, but her teeth kept his lower lip for a second before releasing him. 

He glared down at her, and she raised her eyebrows knowingly. “Now what?” she taunted.

He sneered at her, then slammed into her hard, and she let out a wild cry. Samson fucked her in a fast and punishing blur, and the harder he fucked her, the more her face twisted with pleasure and the faster his own pleasure was building and roiling in the depths of his gut–

His climax suddenly burst, and his breath left him in a guttural groan. “Bloody fucking balls,” he blurted. 

Roman sobbed and scratched his arm. “Don’t stop, don’t stop!” 

He shuddered with bliss and kept fucking her, pounding into her as his climax pulsed through his limbs and his cock, and a few thrusts later, she cried out as well and slammed her head back into the pillows. Samson kept fucking her for as long as he could, and when he was finally too spent to continue, he slumped over her and studied her face as he tried to catch his breath.

Her eyes were closed and her cheeks were flushed. Strands of her raven-black hair were stuck to the sweat on her neck, and despite the heavy rise and fall of her ribs, she looked more at peace than he’d ever seen her. 

His heart did that stupid squeezing-twisting thing again. He gazed silently at her, dazed with pleasure and fatigue and the surreality of seeing Roman Hawke looking so relaxed. 

She opened her eyes and met his gaze. Samson tensed, ready for her to snap at him and push him away. 

Instead of pushing him away, she stared at him in silence, and his pulse started to rise. Her gaze was steady and serious, and her face was calm but neutral, and he had no idea what she was thinking. 

He met her eyes unflinchingly despite his pounding heart. Then she pursed her lips and pushed his shoulder. “Get off,” she said.

A pang of disappointment tugged at his belly, but he rolled off of her. She slid off of the bed and start unclipping her bra, and Samson watched dully as the evidence of his climax trickled down the inside of her thigh. 

She dropped her bra on the floor. “I’m taking a bath,” she said, and she padded away. 

He watched her in bemusement as she went into the en-suite washroom. He listened to the sound of the bath being filled and tried to decide what he was supposed to do now. Should he leave? She hadn’t told him to stay, and he wasn’t in the mood to have her snapping at him to get the fuck out. 

If he wasn’t in the mood to be snapped at, he really should just leave; she was always picking at him, and it was so fucking wearying. 

He slowly rose from the bed and put on some of Carver’s old clothes. Then he went into the washroom. 

Roman was in the bath, and she looked up at him with a frown as he came in. “What do you want?” she said. 

“Relax, Bird. I’m just getting my shoes,” he grumbled. He put on his shoes, then stood back and gestured at the rest of his clothes. “I guess you can throw those out.”

“I’ll wash them and get them back to you,” she said. “They’re not a total lost cause.” 

She wasn’t looking at him. She picked up the soap and started lathering a washcloth, and Samson watched her awkwardly for a second. 

Then he remembered the crimson scarf in the pocket of his dirty trousers – the trousers that Roman said she would wash. 

His heart stopped. _Maker’s balls,_ he thought. Could he get the scarf out of the pocket of his trousers without her seeing it and accusing him of being a pervert?

He gritted his teeth. There was nothing for it; either he got the scarf back now and risked her seeing it, or she’d find it later while washing his trousers. 

He bent over and started picking up his dirty clothes, and Roman glanced at him. “Leave them,” she said. “I said I’ll deal with them.”

“I’ll fold them,” he said, and he rifled surreptitiously in the pocket of his trousers.

“Why bother?” she asked. “They’re just going to go in the laundry anyway.”

He gave her a scathing look. “Stop nagging me for one second, will you? Just let me fold the bloody clothes.”

Her face creased into a scowl, and she looked away from him. “Fine. Fold your dirty fucking clothes. See if I care.” She started washing herself aggressively. 

He’d pissed her off. A pang of regret plucked at his chest, but it was too late to fix it now. 

His fingers finally found the scarf in his pocket. He relaxed, then swiftly tucked her crimson scarf into the pocket of his new trousers before folding his dirty clothes and setting them on the wooden stool. He stepped back and tucked his hands in his pockets, feeling increasingly at a loss. He knew he should leave, but if he was perfectly honest, he didn’t want to. 

But Roman hadn’t invited him to stay, and he’d already taken so much charity from her today, and the last thing he wanted was for Roman Hawke to pity him…

He awkwardly scratched his stubbled neck. “I’ll be off, then.”

“Whatever,” she said without looking up. She pulled her wet hair over one shoulder and started washing her back. 

He watched her for a second longer. Then, before he could change his mind, he stepped over to the bathtub.

He placed his hand on her bare shoulder and turned her toward him, and she glared at him. “Hey, what–”

He bent over the bathtub and kissed her firmly on the lips, then pulled away before she could bite him. “Thanks for the fuck,” he said bluntly. “I’d do it again.”

Her cheeks turned pink, and she scowled. “Fuck you,” she muttered. 

“Anytime, Bird,” he said seriously. “I mean it.”

She _harrumph_ ed and splashed some water at him. “Go away.”

The water hit him in the eye, and he flinched. He straightened and wiped his face, then scowled at her. “Thanks for that,” he said flatly.

She shrugged and went back to washing her back. Samson studied the bony line of her spine for a second longer, then left the bathroom without another word.

_She’s such a bloody bitch,_ he thought resentfully as he made his way down the stairs. Splashing him in the face and clawing his arms while he was fucking her and looking at him like he was some kind of animal before sucking his cock… She was a pain in the ass, and he didn’t know why he bothered with her. 

Monty was curled by the fire in the main room. As Samson made his way toward the door, the mabari stood up and followed him. 

Samson paused by the door and looked down at the mabari. “Guard the door, eh?” he murmured. “I can’t lock it after I leave.” 

Monty sat down attentively and let out a little _woof_. Samson reached for the doorknob, but just before he opened the door to let himself out, a memory crossed his mind: Roman’s peaceful face right after he finished fucking her.

_Bloody Bird,_ he thought wistfully. He looked at Monty once more. “See you soon, maybe,” he said. Then he opened the door to the Amell mansion and left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your writer is [Pikapeppa on Tumblr,](https://pikapeppa.tumblr.com/) and your wonderful artist and creator of Romie Hawke is [Schoutey Schoute!](https://schoute.tumblr.com/) xoxo


	5. Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Timeline note: sometime later in Act II, when Hawke has her mansion.  
> NSFW smut.

“Take off your pants,” Roman snapped.

Samson raised his eyebrows as he closed the front door behind him. “Good afternoon to you, too,” he drawled.

She curled her lip. “Shut up. Do you want to fuck me or not?” Without waiting for a reply, she ran up the stairs and pushed open her bedroom door. 

By the time Samson was in the bedroom with her, his shirt and vest were off and his pants were unlaced. “What’s with the rush, Bird? You expecting guests or something?”

“My mother will be back in less than an hour,” she said. She took off her robe and shoved down her skirt. 

Samson’s eyebrows shot up. “Why’d you have me come here then, if we’ve got to be so quick?”

She paused while taking off her bra and shot him an incredulous look. “What the fuck do you need to do that will take an entire hour?”

He grinned. “All right then, I see how it is.” He kicked off his shoes and shoved his trousers down, and Roman was pleased to note that he was already nice and hard. 

He stalked toward her and grabbed her hips, then walked her back toward the wall and shoved her back against it, and she gasped as the sharp angles of her shoulder blades hit the wall. “Ow,” she complained. “That hurt, you dick.”

He smiled slowly at her, then leaned in to whisper in her ear. “If I remember right, that’s how you like it, isn’t it?”

His words were scented with the twang of lyrium that he always carried on his breath, and Roman curled her lip as the now-familiar scent lifted the pulse between her legs. _Smug asshole,_ she thought; he knew very well that she liked his manhandling. There was something about the way Samson grabbed her and pushed her around that was the perfect combination of rough and gentle, like he knew just how much to hurt her to make the lust in her blood spark into flame, and even now as he waited for her to respond, his callused palms were sliding up over the angles of her ribs with just the right amount of roughness to make her breathing short and sharp. 

He twisted her nipple suddenly, and she gasped. “Fuck,” she blurted.

He snickered and leaned his hips into hers, and the hard ridge of his cock shifted temptingly against her belly. “You ready for me already, Bird? You must have been sitting ‘ere eager and waiting for me.” He twisted her nipple a little harder, sending the perfect pulse of pain and pleasure straight to the apex of her thighs, then brushed his nose over her cheek and kissed her. 

His whiskers were scratchy but his lips were surprisingly soft, and for one, tiny, single split second, Roman permitted the kiss. 

Then she bit his lower lip. 

He grunted and tried to pull away, but she kept his lip for a second, sinking her teeth just a little more into his lip before letting him go. When he leaned away, his eyes were wide, and there was a hint of blood on his lip.

His tongue flicked over his lip, and his eyes darted to her face. Then he grabbed her wrists and pinned them to the wall. “You going to try some of that blood magic on me, Bird?” he snarled.

“I might have to if you don’t fuck me soon,” she panted. 

A flash of a smile crossed his face, and Roman smirked viciously in return. “All right,” Samson said. “All right then, I see how it is.” Then he kissed her hard.

She grunted and pushed him away, then slapped him across the face when he stumbled back. He rubbed his cheek and grinned at her, then grabbed her hips and turned her around to face the wall. 

“Bend over, Bird,” he said, and he dug his fingers into her hips. 

She bent at the waist and braced her elbows on the wall. “Stop talking and just fuck me alread– _ah!_ ” She cried out as he slammed his cock inside of her. 

He groaned, then slowly pulled out of her and paused, and Roman writhed in his hands. “For fuck’s sake, Samson, just _fuck me!_ ” 

He chuckled and didn’t move. “You’re used to getting your way ‘round this city, aren’t you? With your friends following you around the place, going where you want to go?”

She snarled at him, and he bent over her and lowered his voice. “Well, you’re not wandering around in Darktown now.” He slowly started to enter her again, and she panted with increasing desperation as he slid into her inch by slow, torturous inch. 

She twisted her hips. He was going so fucking slowly, and she just wanted him to fill her up. “Come on, come _on,_ ” she urged. She reached back and dug her nails into his hand. 

He gasped in pain, then let out a slow and pleasured little growl that sent a fresh rush of desire through her body. “Not yet,” he groaned, and he pulled out of her and held still once more.

She raked her nails along his arm. “Samson, come on, I need you to fuck me!”

He groaned again, then tightened his fingers on her hips and slammed into her hard, and the feeling of his cock filling her up drove a guttural cry from her throat. He was fucking her hard and fast now, and the ridge of his cock was striking the exact spot inside of her where she needed him the most, and if he just kept going at this pace, she would – fuck yes, she just needed him to keep going…

She lowered her chest a bit more and arched her spine, then gasped in ecstasy: the tilt of her hips was giving him the exact angle she needed to come on his cock, and from the sudden sharpness of his breathing, it was good for him too. 

His breathy groan confirmed it. “Maker’s fucking balls, you feel bloody fantastic.”

She clenched her nails against the wall and didn’t reply; she couldn’t speak or think with his cock driving into her like this. She held her breath and dug her nails into the wall and focused on the perfect friction of his cock, and a few frenzied heartbeats later, her climax tore through her. 

She cried out and shuddered against the wall. The pleasure was fanning out through her entire body in pulsing waves, and the relentless pounding of Samson’s cock was only making it better. 

He panted and groaned and kept on fucking her, then suddenly leaned over her and pulled on her shoulder. Boneless with pleasure, she followed the guidance of his hand and lifted her body so her back was flush to his chest, and she was so hazy from the pleasure that was still tingling in her toes that she permitted him to slide his hand around her throat. 

He was still fucking her, and his voice was a breathy growl against her ear. “Did I fuck the fight out of you, Bird?”

She leaned her head back blissfully as his lyrium-laced words wafted hotly over her cheek. Before she met Samson, she had no idea that lyrium could smell so good. “Fuck you,” she mumbled. 

He laughed against her ear, then shuddered and grunted, and Roman could feel the pulsing of his orgasm deep inside of her. His fingers tensed around her throat as he pumped into her a few more times, and when his hips finally fell still, she closed her eyes and idly enjoyed the heat of his wiry chest against her back. 

Then she pulled his hand away from her throat and stepped away from him. His seed immediately trickled down the inside of her thigh, but she ignored it as she picked up her skirt. 

She glanced at Samson. His sallow cheeks were flushed and his eyes were hot and knowing, and she ignored the way her belly flipped at that heated look on his face. 

“Get out,” she said, and she started getting dressed. 

He snorted, then started slowly pulling on his clothes. “Ashamed of me, are you?”

“Obviously,” Roman sneered. Besides, her mother had this look she wore whenever she saw Samson, like she’d stepped in shit or something. Seeing her mother looking at Samson that way always made her blood boil, and she wasn’t in the mood to pick a fight with Leandra today.

Not that she was going to tell Samson about the mom-looking-down-on-him thing. It would make him think she liked him or something, which she obviously didn’t. 

She pulled on her robe, then gave him an impatient look. “Hurry the fuck up, will you?” 

He shot her a resentful look as he pulled on his vest. “Give me a second here. My head’s still fuzzy.” 

“Well, too bad,” she said. She swept past him and back down the stairs, then waited impatiently by the door for him to follow her down the stairs. 

He came down the stairs slowly — probably to piss her off — and when he was standing beside her at the door, he tucked his hands in his pockets. “See you later, maybe?”

She wrinkled her nose. “Why? Are you asking for a date or something? If that’s the case, you’re fucking the wrong girl.”

He gave her a chiding look. “I mean for a job, Bird. I’m low on coin again. Need to get the dust somehow.”

She relaxed slightly. “Oh. If you need some coin, I’ll give it to you.”

He frowned and stepped back. “I don’t think so. I’m not your whore. If I’m coming over ‘ere for this, it’s not because I’m taking your coin afterwards.”

She stared at him with a squirm of discomfort in her gut. That almost sounded like he liked coming over here to fuck her. Well, he had to like it in some way, or he wouldn’t have come. And she wouldn’t have invited him if she didn’t want him here– 

_Nope,_ she thought. _I’m not thinking about this._ She opened the door and gave him a flat-eyed stare. “I’ll see you when I see you. Now get out.”

Samson smirked, then huffed and shook his head. “Later, Bird. Thanks for the good time.”

She rolled her eyes. “Fuck you.”

“You just did,” he retorted. 

Roman stared at his wicked little smile. She couldn’t laugh. She _couldn’t_. If she laughed, it would mean he’d won. 

She shoved him out and closed the door behind him, then stalked back into the house. _Fucking Samson,_ she thought peevishly. She didn’t know why she kept seeing him when he was always so fucking smug about it.

She wondered when she would see him again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your incredible artist Schoute is [here on Tumblr](https://schoute.tumblr.com/), and I am[Pikapeppa on Tumblr](https://pikapeppa.tumblr.com/)! xo


	6. Ashamed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW. With SEXY ART by Schoute!!! I AM DEAD ABOUT THE ART THIS WEEK YOU GUYS OKAY.

###  SAMSON 

Samson made his way to Roman’s house in Hightown with a little spring in his step.

Granted, it wasn’t much of a spring; his neck hurt from the awkward angle he’d fallen asleep sitting against an alley wall last night, and he had to be careful not to draw any attention lest the patrolling guardsmen throw him out of Hightown for daring to breathe their fancy air. Still, despite his aching neck and the necessary caution required for travelling through the elite part of town, Samson was feeling rather jaunty. It was hard not to feel a little cheerful when he knew he’d be getting some sex.

Late last night, Roman had stopped by his usual corner on her way home from the Hanged Man and had told him to come to her house today for a fuck. This had been happening more and more often of late; it had been a few weeks now since the first time he’d gone to her house and ended up having sex with her, and since that time, she’d started inviting him to her house at least three times a week. 

Well, ‘inviting’ might have been a strong word. ‘Bad-temperedly commanding’ was more accurate. Roman would come to see him for their regular little back-and-forth of insults and exchanges of information for coin, but just before she left, she’d tell him to show up at her mansion at such-and-such a day and time, and then she’d walk away without waiting for him to say yes or no. When Samson inevitably appeared at her mansion at the specified date and time, he’d find himself balls deep inside of the pretty bird about ten minutes later. 

It was… unbelievable. Literally beyond belief. Samson didn’t understand what the infamous Roman Hawke was doing with the likes of him. Not to say she necessarily had a lineup of suitors at her door, given how notoriously bitchy and scary she was, but still: she was rich and influential, while Samson was a homeless ex-Templar who barely eked out a living in Lowtown. She was in the prime of her youth, while Samson was… Maker, some days he felt like a ninety-year-old corpse. She was… well, not beautiful exactly; the average person wouldn’t go around calling her a great beauty, what with her constant scowl and her lanky body that was all arms and legs. But in Samson’s eyes… 

Fine, he’d admit it: he liked looking at Roman Hawke. She was real easy on the eyes, in his humble opinion. Whereas even Samson’s own mother would say he was nothing special to look at. If she were alive, that is. 

In short, he couldn’t figure out why Roman had decided that _he_ was the man she wanted to fuck on the regular. But he certainly wasn’t going to say no to such a boon. He was getting more sex now as a beggar than he’d ever gotten during any other time in his life, and the irony of this was enough to cheer him up in a vindictive sort of way. To think that he, Raleigh Samson, was currently getting more tail than his former Templar brethren? More tail than that bloody handsome berk Cullen Rutherford? This thought alone was enough to bring a smile to his face. 

All in all, it was a cheerful-feeling Samson who knocked on the door of the Amell mansion a few minutes later. After a few seconds’ wait, Roman opened the door. 

Samson tucked his hands in his pockets and lifted one eyebrow. “Bird. How’s—”

“Get in here,” she said, and she grabbed his shirt.

He stumbled in surprise as she dragged him through the door. She slammed the door shut, and Samson barely had time to regain his balance before she was shoving his chest.

“Move,” she snapped. She took a step closer and shoved him again.

He hastily backed away from her, then kept stumbling back as she aggressively stepped toward him. “Hey,” he protested. “What’s going on ‘ere? What’s the matter with you?”

“Nothing,” she said, but she kept pushing his chest until he stumbled into the wall. Then she ran her palm over his groin.

He grunted in surprise. He wasn’t even hard yet — Maker’s balls, she hadn’t even given him a chance to get hard — but at the pressure of her palm, he could already feel his cock stirring to life. 

She _tsk_ ed and rubbed his groin. “Why aren’t you hard yet?”

He choked out a little laugh. “Give me two bloody seconds, won’t you? I’m not as young as I used to be.”

She paused in her rubbing and shot him a scathing look. “That’s a poor fucking excuse.” Then, to his mild disappointment, she stopped rubbing his groin and started untucking his shirt from his trousers. 

Her fingers were rough and brisk as she plucked at his clothes, and Samson watched her in exasperation. “If I wanted to be frisked, I’d have just gone to the nearest guardsman instead of coming here.”

She looked up. “Huh?”

He gestured at her hands, which were tugging impatiently at the laces of his trousers. “You’re being pretty rough, Bird. This feels more like a strip search than anything.”

She scoffed and kept pulling at his laces. “If you want to be treated all nice and sweet, go to the Blooming Rose.”

He took her jaw in a gentle grip and lifted her chin. “Why would I go to the Blooming Rose when I can get it for free?”

She scowled at him. “That’s why you’re here? Because you think I’m cheap?” She tried to twist her face away from his hand, but he tightened his grip on her chin so she couldn’t wiggle free.

He looked her intently in the eye. “I’m here because you told me to come.”

“And you came because you think I’m fucking cheap and easy,” she said in a hard tone.

He sighed loudly — why did she always have to be so fucking difficult? — then kissed her hard. Her lips parted, and Samson quickly pulled away before she could bite him.

He ran his thumb over her chin, then released her. “Maker bloody knows why, Bird, but I like fucking you. So finish your frisking already so we can get to it.”

She curled her lip at him and went back to pulling on his laces. “You’re — fuck you. Don’t tell me what to do.”

He smirked, pleased to have won this particular argument. Roman finally finished unlacing his trousers and pulled out his cock, and when she wrapped her fingers around his shaft, he let out a pleasured breath.

“Finally,” he said. “Are you going to get your kit off now, or–”

She dropped to her knees and took his cock in her mouth, and Samson jerked with shock at the sudden wet heat of her mouth. She moved her lips up and down his shaft, and when the head of his cock slid deep into the softness of her throat, a gasp of pleasure burst from his lips. 

Fuck, she was sucking him so firmly, and her throat was so sweet and warm, and if she kept this up for much longer, he was going to come. He placed his palm on the crown of her head. “Hang on, Bird, just a– ah, fuck…”

She released his cock and frowned up at him. “What, don’t you want this?”

“Of course I do,” he panted. “I just — don’t you want — what about you?”

She gave him a look as though he’d suggested something horribly perverted. “What are you, a fucking gentleman?”

He chuckled breathlessly. “I’m a perfect gentleman, all right. Just look at my genteel clothes.” He gestured sarcastically at his threadbare trousers.

She scoffed and pumped her hand along his cock. “Shut up. You can pay me back after.”

He smirked dirtily. “Pay you back how?”

“By putting your tongue in my pussy, you dumbass,” she said archly. 

His cock jerked at her raw words. The thought of Roman’s fragrant wet pussy against his mouth, that fragrant pussy of hers sliding onto his length, the way she clenched around him when he was deep inside of her… 

“Can I keep going or what?” she said impatiently.

“Yes, yeah, suck me off,” he panted. 

“Good,” she grunted. “Maybe you’ll shut the fuck up now.” She took him in her mouth again, and Samson closed his eyes in bliss. Her mouth was a perfect firm pressure around his shaft, and it felt so good that he couldn’t help but roll his hips toward her a little bit as she suckled him.

She growled around his shaft and rested her hands on his thighs. He groaned and tightened his fingers in her raven-black hair, and she started sucking him harder—

Someone knocked on the door, and Samson’s whole body went cold with panic. 

Roman released him with a muffled curse and stood up. “Put your cock away,” she said brusquely, and she turned to the door. 

“Don’t open it!” he squawked. “For Maker’s bloody sake, don’t–”

“I won’t,” she hissed. “Just lace up your fucking trousers.”

The knock came again, and Roman rolled her eyes. “Just a second,” she hollered, and she turned and gave Samson an impatient look. 

He hastily finished tying up his trousers and ran a hand through his hair, and Roman went to the door and opened it a crack. 

Varric’s voice filtered through the crack in the door. “Morning. Ready to go?”

“Go?” Roman said. “Go where?”

“Sundermount, remember?” Varric said. “Daisy’s little errand? I’m not keen either, to be honest; you know how I feel about all that nature shit, but we promised.”

Roman tilted her head back and let out a long sigh. “Fuck,” she groaned. “I completely fucking forgot. You’d better come in while I get my shit together.” She opened the door wider and stepped back to let him in.

Varric came into the house, and when his eyes fell on Samson, his eyebrows jumped up. “Oh,” he said blankly. “Hey.”

Samson nodded awkwardly and touched his fingers to his forehead in greeting. “Tethras.”

Varric’s eyes darted from him to Roman. “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to, uh, interrupt.”

“You’re not interrupting,” Roman said. “He was just leaving.” She shot Samson a pointed look.

He wilted slightly, but he wasn’t really surprised; she usually tried to get him out before any of her friends or family could catch him here. He sighed and made his way to the door. “Enjoy your nature trip,” he said, and he reached for the doorknob.

To his surprise, however, Varric spoke to him before he could open the door. “We’ll probably be back by tomorrow night, if you want to join us at the Hanged Man for a round of diamondback.”

Samson turned and stared at him in surprise. Varric was inviting him to join them? 

“No,” Roman said. 

Samson looked at her, but she was scowling at Varric. Varric raised his eyebrows. “You sure? We can always use another player.”

“I said no,” Roman said in a hard tone. “I don’t want him hanging around with the others.”

Samson’s gut twisted. He was surprised at how much her words hurt, like a dull knife piercing beneath his ribs. It was one thing for him to sneak in and out of her house without anyone seeing, but to hear her blatantly saying that she was ashamed of him… 

He bowed sarcastically to her to hide his hurt. “As the lady commands. Don’t let me taint your posh presence any more than I already ‘ave.” 

Her pouty mouth twisted into a sour expression, but she didn’t say anything, and with a pang, Samson pulled open the door and let himself out. 

He skulked through Hightown feeling like a whipped dog. As good as he’d been feeling on his way here, he was now feeling like utter shit, and he _hated_ that he felt so bad. Logically, he understood why Roman didn’t want him around: he wasn’t anybody worth keeping around. He’d been thinking it himself on his way to her house, after all; he was a dishonoured ex-Templar and a beggar, an unsightly old shell of a man who was all skin and bones, and she was Roman Hawke. Of course she didn’t want him hanging around her precious friends. 

If it made logical sense and he agreed with her, why did it hurt so fucking much to hear her say it?

He slowly made his way back to Lowtown, and his mindset swung from anger to humiliation to resignation and back to anger once more like the pendulum of a clock. She was such a bitch, kicking him out of her house and being so _mean_ about it. While Varric was watching, no less, just in case it wasn’t humiliating enough to be kicked out with barely a goodbye. Who the fuck did she think she was to just boss him around, telling him to come over and then telling him to get out like he was at her beck and call?

He immediately answered his own question. _She’s Roman Hawke,_ he thought. _She’s better than you deserve, even if she’s mean as a rabid alleycat._ And that, of course, was the problem. Samson was the first to admit that he was as good as the dirt at the bottom of her shoes, so he should consider himself lucky she’d even spoken to him in the first place, let alone allowed him to fuck her as many times as he had. And at least when she talked to him, she didn’t look at him like he was a piece of shit. 

Really, if he thought about it, Roman was essentially the only person in Kirkwall who even _looked_ at him when she spoke to him. And when she looked at him, it was like he was more than just a washed-up vagrant. When Roman talked to him, it even felt like she thought his opinions were worth more than just wind. 

But then she kicked him out of her house before anyone could see him, and she told her best bloody friend that she didn’t want him around her other friends…

 _Fucking idiot,_ he thought, but he wasn’t thinking about Roman now; he was thinking about himself. It was stupid of him to read anything into the way she looked at him or talked to him. It was stupid of him to think that she saw value in him. Of course she didn’t see any value; she was Roman Hawke, the wealthy and terrifying bitch who had gone to the deep roads and come back alive — who regularly walked straight into life-threatening situations and came out of them with nothing more than a few cuts on her arms and her middle finger held high.

And he was Raleigh Samson, the ex-Templar beggar who would lick a corrupt guardsman’s boots for a mere whiff of lyrium. 

_It’s as it should be,_ he thought. She was a noble lady now, and he was at the bottom of the gutter where he’d always been since they’d met. It only made sense for her to treat him accordingly. But now that he’d had a taste of what it was like for Roman to look at him like he had value, to talk to him like an equal, he couldn’t stand the thought of her treating him like a piece of shit like she’d done today.

There was only one thing to be done, then: he wouldn’t see her anymore. Sure, it would mean a significant source of his coin would dry up, and it would mean he’d probably be curled somewhere in a corner in a couple of days having the sweats and the dry heaves as he went through lyrium withdrawal. But even that was better than the thought of Roman looking at him like the ruin that he was. 

By now, he was back in Lowtown. He made his way toward his usual spot near the docks, but instead of stopping, he turned down an alleyway and followed a twisting and increasingly dirty path toward a loose sewer grate. 

He sighed. He hated going to this part of town, but at least it meant that Roman wouldn’t find him if she came looking for him.

With that glumly determined thought, he lifted the grate and disappeared into Darktown.

###  ROMAN 

Samson was missing.

Roman hadn’t seen him in five days. Ever since she and the others had returned from fucking Sundermount four days ago, she hadn’t caught even a glimpse of him anywhere in Lowtown. She’d looked around for him at all hours of the day, and she’d gone from the docks to the marketplace and back, and he was nowhere to be found.

And Roman was fucking pissed. 

It had been months since she’d gone this long without running into him one way or another. He was usually at that one particular corner near the docks, but even when he wasn’t there, it was always possible to find him somewhere in Lowtown. Or to be found by him, depending on the situation; when she was about to get into a fight with some fucking idiot thugs, he was often the one who ended up finding _her_ – which she hated since it usually meant he stopped her from getting into the fight in the first place. 

_Fucking idiot, thinking he can tell me what to do,_ she fumed. If only he was around right now so she could give him a piece of her mind. But she’d been searching Lowtown for five fucking days, and she was finally forced to admit it: Samson wasn’t here.

But that raised the worrisome question of where he _was_. 

Not that Roman was worried or anything. She definitely wasn’t worried. It’s not like she thought he’d gotten killed or something. She was just… she was just fucking pissed. Pissed because she was horny and needed a good fuck. How dare Samson go missing after she’d caved in and decided to keep on fucking him?

Although she supposed it was possible that he’d gotten killed. If someone like Samson had gotten killed, would anyone notice other than her? Would anyone report it to Aveline so the city guard could investigate what had happened to him?

Roman knew the answer: of course not. Nobody but Roman would notice, and nobody but she would think to ask Aveline to send some guards to look for him. But since the city guard were the ones hassling Samson half the time, Roman wasn’t very well going to go to them for help.

Not that she needed help, anyway. She was completely fine on her own without anybody’s fucking help.

When the sixth morning rolled around with no Samson in sight, however, Roman was forced to admit that even if she didn’t need help finding him, maybe she needed a little hint. 

She went to Anders’s clinic in Darktown. If Samson had gotten injured or sick, he would have come here. Anders was such a fucking stickler for his patient-doctor confidentiality bullshit that he wouldn’t tell Roman what happened to Samson if he _had_ come here, but at least she’d be able to find out if Anders had seen him. 

Anders was sterilizing some metal instruments in the fire when she came in, and he looked up with a smile. “Hawke,” he said. “I was just about to get something to eat. Do you want to come with me?

“No,” she said. “I mean, uh, no thanks, I can’t right now. Have you–” She broke off and tugged her ear. “Fuck.”

His smile slipped away. “What’s wrong?”

She pursed her lips, then glared at him. “Don’t fucking read anything into this, okay?”

“All right,” he said cautiously.

Roman sighed loudly and folded her arms. “Have you seen Samson in the past few days?”

Anders’s eyebrows rose, but he nodded. “He was here three nights ago.”

“Why?” she demanded.

“I can’t tell you that, Hawke,” Anders said. “I’m sorry.”

She rubbed her forehead in frustration. That meant he _had_ been injured or sick. “Okay, but — but he was alive at the time?”

Anders frowned. “Yes, of course. Were you worried he was dead?”

“I wasn’t worried, okay?” she snapped. “I — I don’t care. I just _thought_ maybe he was dead. I wasn’t worried.”

His expression softened in an annoying way that made her want to punch him. “Well, he’s not dead. And as a friend now and not a doctor, I can tell you that I saw him by the abandoned mine entrance just this morning. He’s been staying here in Darktown for the past few days.”

Her eyes widened. “He — staying in Darktown? What the fuck? Why?”

“The stunning city views, of course,” Anders said sarcastically. “Don’t tell me you’ve never noticed how nice and brown Kirkwall is down here.”

She scoffed. “Okay. Um, thanks.” She turned on her heel and made a beeline for the abandoned mine entrance that was just a few minutes’ walk deeper into Darktown.

Sure enough, Samson was there. He was sitting on the ground hunched against an untidy stack of unused wooden planks, and Roman’s heart lurched into her throat.

He looked like shit. His face was paler than usual, and the dark circles under his eyes made it look like he hadn’t slept in days. His eyes were closed, but his brow was furrowed into a frown that made her think maybe he was in pain. 

“Samson,” she barked. 

To her relief, his eyes opened, and he looked up at her. But his expression didn’t twist into that shit-eating little curl of a smirk that she’d come to expect from him.

Instead, he closed his eyes and leaned his head against the stack of planks again. “Bird,” he grunted. 

_For fuck’s fucking sakes,_ she thought. She strode toward him and lightly kicked his foot. “Where the fuck have you been? I thought you were dead!”

“Why do you care?” he said.

She recoiled slightly. “What?”

He opened his eyes and glared at her. “Why would the high and mighty Lady Roman Hawke give a rat’s left tit if something happened to the likes of me, eh?”

She stared at him with rising anger. Why was he being such a prickly shithead?

She crouched down in front of him and smacked his bent knee. “I’m not a fucking lady. I’ve been looking—”

He interrupted her. “You are, though. You got the deeds in Hightown and everything. You’re a proper lady, and that’s the point, isn’t it?”

“What the fuck are you carrying on about?” she said in genuine confusion. “The point of what?”

“It’s why you don’t need to bother about me anymore, Bird,” he said. “Go back to Hightown and—” He broke off with a hacking cough that made Roman’s own ribs ache at the sound.

She sighed in annoyance and reached into her satchel, then pulled out a canteen of water. She cupped it in her palms for a second to warm its contents with a quick burst of magic, then held it out. “Here.”

He waved her off. “I don’t—” Another bout of coughing cut him off, and Roman scowled at him.

“Drink the fucking water, Samson,” she ordered.

He glared viciously at her, then took the canteen and drank half of its contents in a few gulps. He handed it back to her with a grimace. “Worst tea I’ve ever drunk. You’re so fancy now that you can’t even make tea right?”

“It’s not tea, you fucking idiot,” she snapped. “It’s just…” She trailed off. He was smirking faintly.

Her heart squeezed at the sight of his smirk. She scowled at him in response. “You’re not fucking funny. Drink the rest of it.”

He sighed but obediently took the canteen from her. Roman waited until he’d finished the hot water, then took the canteen back. “Anders says hot water’s good for you if you’re sick,” she said. She replaced the canteen in her satchel and started rifling around.

“I’m not sick,” he said.

She paused in her rifling to look at him. “You aren’t? You look like you are.”

“That’s nice,” he said dryly. “No, I’m not sick. I got the shakes.”

She frowned. “The shakes?”

“Lyrium withdrawal, Bird,” he drawled. “I ran out of coin two days ago.”

She gazed at him with growing horror. “Maker’s fucking balls. Why didn’t you come to me?”

He frowned, then settled against the pile of wooden planks again. “I don’t need your coin.”

“Clearly you do,” she said archly. “Look at you, for fuck’s sake! You look half-dead!”

“I don’t _want_ your bloody coin, all right?” he barked. “I don’t want to need anything from you. I just…” He trailed off and rubbed his forehead.

She glared at him for a second longer, then went back to rifling in her satchel until she found what she was looking for. She pulled out a waxcloth-wrapped packet of sandwiches and offered it to him. “Here. Eat these.”

His eyes darted to the packet, then away. “No thanks.”

She frowned. He’d never refused food from her before. “When was the last time you ate?”

“Don’t remember,” he said without looking at her.

“Then you need to fucking eat this,” she insisted, and she held out the packet.

He shot her a glare. “I don’t want it, Bird, I told you,” he said in a hard tone. “I don’t want any of your charity.”

“It’s not charity, you dumbass,” she retorted.

“What is it, then? A gift from her ladyship?”

“Stop fucking calling me that,” she snapped. “I’m not a fucking fancy noble. Stop making it sound like I’m so much better than you.”

At this, he actually lifted his head from the wooden planks and looked her in the eye. “You really think that? You really think you’re no better than me?”

“I’m not better than you,” she said harshly.

He narrowed his eyes. “You’re lying.”

She recoiled from him, then gave him a venomous look. “Excuse me?”

“You do too think you’re better than me,” he accused. He settled his head against the pile of planks again. “It’s all right, Bird, you can admit you’re ashamed of me. At least it’d be honest.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” she demanded. “I’m not ashamed of you.”

“Then why…” He trailed off, and Roman raised her eyebrows.

“What?” she barked. “Go on, speak your fucking mind.”

He let out a long sigh. “You sneaking me in and out of your bloody house like smuggled goods. You think I’m going to embarrass you in front of your mum and Tethras and your other precious friends, don’t you?”

She gaped at him in open incredulity. “You… wait a second. You think the sneaking is because I’m ashamed of you?”

“What other reason is there for acting like you’re harbouring darkspawn when you’re bringin’ me in and out?”

She gaped at him for a second longer, then abruptly stood up. “You want to know why I sneak you in and out of the house?”

He looked up at her. “You telling me I’m wrong, then?”

“Yes,” she bit off. “You’re fucking wrong.”

“I don’t believe you.”

A surge of rage roared in her ears. How dare he question her sincerity? She’d spent the past six days worrying about his sorry ass and wondering where the fuck he’d been, and now that she’d found him, he was questioning her fucking sincerity?

 _I don’t need this,_ she thought furiously. This sort of stupid bullshit drama was one of the reasons that Roman never bothered with relationships and just stuck to sex instead. But if the man she’d chosen to have sex with was going to act like a petty asshole and question her motives… 

She didn’t need this shit. She didn’t need him. She opened her mouth to tell him to fuck off forever. “I’ll prove it,” she said instead. “Come to my house tonight at nine o’clock.” 

His eyebrows shot up. “Eh?”

 _Shut up, Roman,_ she scolded herself. _He’s like a disease infecting your fucking thoughts. Don’t let him infect you any more than he already has._

But her wayward mouth kept moving. “You heard me. You think I’m ashamed of you? Come to my fucking house at nine o’clock.” She tossed the packet of sandwiches into his lap. “Eat that first. You look like death warmed over.” She reached into her coin pouch and haphazardly pulled out a handful of silver, then grabbed his hand and slapped the silver into his palm. “And find some fucking lyrium if it’ll make you feel better, all right? I don’t want you throwing your guts up all over my carpet.” Without waiting for his reply, she turned and stormed away. 

_Fucking Samson_ , she thought furiously. He was going to act like she was some haughty noble bitch who was _ashamed_ of him? She’d show him. When he came to her house tonight, he’d see exactly what she’d been shielding him from.

**********************

That night, when someone knocked at the door at nine o’clock sharp, Roman didn’t move from her spot on the floor in front of the fire with Monty. Instead, she allowed Bodahn to answer the door. 

She listened as the door opened. Bodahn’s voice was cooler than usual when he spoke. “Sir. What can I do for you?”

Samson replied. “Is Roman here? Uh, Miz Hawke, I mean.”

“Can you state your business, please?” Bodahn said.

Samson sounded tired when he replied. “Look, I’m here to see Roman Hawke, all right? I know she’s home. Can you just tell her Samson’s here?”

“Wait outside, please,” Bodahn said. Roman listened as the door closed, and a moment later, Bodahn appeared in the doorway. “My lady, there’s–”

“Don’t call me that, Bodahn,” she said. “Let him in.”

Bodahn’s eyebrows rose. “My la– Hawke, I’m not sure that’s wise. I’ve seen him around the market, you know, and if you don’t mind my saying so, he’s a bit of an unsavoury type–

“I know him,” she said sharply. “Just let him in.” 

Bodahn pursed his lips but bowed his head in acquiescence, and Roman went back to petting Monty. A moment later, Bodahn came back with Samson skulking behind him. 

Bodahn’s face was pinched with worry, but he bowed politely to Roman before walking away — without saying anything further to Samson, she noted. 

Samson frowned at her. “Well? I’m here. Now what?” 

She shrugged. “Just wait,” she said.

His frown deepened. A moment later, Leandra’s bedroom door opened at the top of the stairs. 

Her mother stepped out of her bedroom. “Roman, darling? Who is it–?” She broke off and clutched the neckline of her robe. 

Roman glanced up at her mother. Exactly as she’d predicted, Leandra was staring at Samson as though he was a sack of flaming shit. 

_Good,_ Roman thought, and she glanced at Samson again. 

He was looking distinctly uncomfortable. He shifted a little closer to her. “Bird, are you going to help me out here or what?” he muttered.

She shrugged and scratched Monty’s jowls. At the top of the stairs, Leandra squared her shoulders. “Roman, what’s happening here?” she asked. “Do we need to send for the Captain of the Guard?”

Samson tensed, and Roman finally took mercy on him. “No, Mother,” she said. “This is Samson. He’s going to stay here tonight.”

Just as Roman had hoped, Leandra’s face fell in very obvious dismay. “Stay here? But love, he’s a vagrant.”

“Yes, he is,” Roman said in a hard voice, “and he’s staying here tonight.”

Leandra’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Very well,” she said stiffly. “But if a single candlestick goes missing, I will be telling Aveline straight away.” She shot Samson a disgusted look, then returned to her bedroom and shut the door. 

Samson exhaled and ran a hand through his hair. “Bloody Maker’s balls, I thought she really was going to get Aveline to drag me out.” He glared at Roman. “Why’d you wait for so long before clearing that up?”

She kissed Monty’s head, then stood up and jerked her head at the stairs. “Come on,” she said. She went to her bedroom, and when she and Samson were alone in her room, she crossed her arms and gave him an arch look.

“Do you get it now?” she said.

He curled his lip. “Get what? That your mum and your butler think I’m scum?”

“Yes, exactly,” she said.

His expression became cautious. “I’m not following here.”

She eyed him in exasperation. He was being so fucking dense. “The way they looked at you, like you’re a fucking cockroach they’re not allowed to crush? That’s why I sneak you in and out,” she said. “That’s why I don’t want you hanging around with Isabela and Aveline and the others. Seeing that look on people’s faces makes me want to fucking punch them, and it’s bad form to want to punch your own mother and your friends.” She rolled her eyes. “Or so I’ve heard.” 

She watched as the slow wash of realization melted the frown from his face. “You don’t like them looking down at me,” he said.

“Obviously,” she said. Then she gave him a disparaging once-over. “Or apparently not, actually, since you didn’t fucking figure it out. But if you think the reason I was ‘sneaking you around’ was because I’m ashamed of you, then you don’t fucking know me, and maybe you should get the fuck out after all.” She looked away from him and stared at the wallpaper instead. 

If Roman was being completely honest, there was more to it than this. There was another more private reason that she’d been sneaking around with Samson – that she didn’t want him hanging around with the others. The time she spent in private with Samson was… well, it was fucking private. It wasn’t anyone else’s business. Those private moments that she spent losing herself in the driving force of Samson’s wiry body were some of the only selfish and hedonistic moments that Roman had for herself. At some point in the past month, these private and isolated moments with Samson had somehow become the most calming thing she had in her life, almost like being in the eye of a storm. If Samson started hanging around with her friends, Roman was worried she would lose that suspended place of stillness that he brought her by driving his fingers and his cock inside of her.

There was no way she was admitting that to Samson, though. She didn’t want him to think she had feelings for him some bullshit like that. 

He was silent for so long that it was starting to make her skin crawl. When she finally looked at him, it was to find him studying her with a completely serious look on his face.

She tensed. “What the fuck are you staring at me like that for?”

He exhaled and gave her a weary look. “Don’t bite me, all right?”

She wrinkled her nose. “What are you talking about?”

He stepped right up to her, then took her face in his hands and kissed her. 

She was so thrown off that her lips popped open in surprise. Samson tilted his head and kissed her thoroughly, his tongue probing smoothly into her mouth, and Roman was so shocked by the tenderness of his kiss that she couldn’t react. She just stood there like a fucking idiot and allowed him to kiss her while her heart pounded in her ears and the blood pulsed hotly in her throat and at the backs of her eyes. 

No, wait: this wasn’t her pulse in her throat and her face. It was tears. She was – why the fuck was she close to _crying?_

 _Oh fuck no,_ she thought. She couldn’t feel this way. She couldn’t _feel_. It was too dangerous. 

She bit his tongue, and he grunted and clumsily broke the kiss. He rubbed his mouth and scowled at her. “Maker’s balls, Bird,” he complained. “I asked you not to.”

She swallowed hard and rubbed her own mouth with the back of her hand. “You can’t tell me what to do,” she muttered.

He chuckled — that gruff little _heh-heh-heh_ that she felt like a vibration under her skin. “My mistake,” he said. “Look, if I’m really sleeping in your house tonight and that wasn’t just a bluff, can I use your fancy bathtub again?”

She shrugged distractedly, still feeling unbalanced by that kiss. “Whatever. Fine. Do what you want.”

He raised his eyebrows. “What, no comment about how bad I smell?”

“You don’t smell that bad,” she said without thinking. 

His eyes widened. “What was that?”

Fuck. _Fuck,_ she really hadn’t meant to say that. She hunched her shoulders defensively. “I – nothing. I didn’t say anything.”

“You did so,” he pressed. “You said I don’t smell that bad. Here you’ve been breaking my balls for years saying how bad I smell, and now that I spent five nights in bloody Darktown sleeping in the muck, you’re changing your tune?”

“I don’t know what you want me to tell you, okay?” she snapped. “You definitely don’t smell like a garden of fucking roses. Nobody would say you smell _good_ , including me.”

“Then what, Bird?” he asked. “What’re you trying to say?”

“You just… you don’t smell completely terrible,” she muttered. 

“What _do_ I smell like, then?” he said.

She glared viciously at him. “You smell like a man, okay? Whatever. Fuck’s sake.”

A slow grin lit his face. “You like how I smell, don’t you?”

“No,” she snapped. Fuck it, her face was feeling hot. “I didn’t — that’s not what I said!”

“That’s what I heard,” he taunted.

“Then you need to clean your fucking ears,” she retorted. “Go take a fucking bath.” She shoved him toward the bathroom.

“All right, all right, I’m going,” he said. He chuckled again as he sidled into the bathroom, and Roman exhaled slowly to try and calm her wildly thrumming heart. 

She went to Carver’s room to get some of his old clothes for Samson, then bad-temperedly plopped down in her armchair to read _Hard In Hightown_ while Samson bathed. When he came out fifteen minutes later, she glanced up from her book. “Did you–”

He cut her off. “I used the shampoo and I washed the roots, all right? I told you, I can wash my own bloody hair.”

She _harrumph_ ed. “Whatever. Put those on.” She jerked her chin at the clothes at the foot of the bed and returned her gaze to her book, determined not to look at his naked body.

He put on the briefs and the cotton trousers, then sat down at the edge of the bed facing her. A long moment later, during which Roman took in none of the words on the page, she looked up at him.

Her belly flipped. He was shirtless, his rangy shoulders and chest dappled with water from not drying his hair properly, and his expression was oddly pensive as he studied her.

She scowled. “What?”

“Fancy a fuck?” he said.

His words sent a bolt of heat straight to her groin — much to her own disgruntlement. She curled her lip at him and stood up. “You picked a fight with me today, and now you want to fuck? Not a chance.” She turned away from him. 

He grabbed her wrist before she could walk away. “How about a blowjob, then?”

Had he gone fucking insane? She whipped her hand away and folded her arms. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” she scolded.

“Blue balls, partly,” he said wryly. “I didn’t get to finish the other day.”

“That’s not my problem,” she retorted. “ _You_ decided to hide in Darktown for the past five days like a little bitch. Your blue balls are your own fucking fault.”

He slumped slightly. “I guess you’re right. And I’m probably too tired to fuck you properly anyway.” He raised his eyebrows. “I could eat you out, though, if you fancy that instead.”

She stared at him. She didn’t dare to admit that his crass offer was actually making her feel a hum of heat between her legs. “What the fuck is going on with you?” she demanded. “Is this the lyrium withdrawal talking?”

“No, Bird,” he said. “This is just…” He sighed and leaned his elbows on his knees. “I was wrong, all right? You told me I was wrong, and you were right. I’m just tryin’ to make it up to you.”

Her heart fluttered. He was apologizing? He wanted to make it up to her? What did he think this was, some kind of penny-dreadful romance novel? 

She continued to stare at him stonily. “You’re trying to make it up to me by asking for a blowjob?”

He gave her a chiding look. “That was a joke. Sort of. I wouldn’t say no, though, if you–”

She scoffed loudly and headed for the door, but before she could take more than two steps, he stood up and stopped her with his hand on her hip this time.

She smacked his fingers. “Hands off, asshole.”

He sidled up behind her. “Come on, Bird, let me make it up to you,” he said coaxingly. He slid his palms over her shoulders, then curled one hand around her throat, and Roman’s breath hitched. 

Samson pulled her back against his chest. His cock was a hard ridge pressing against her ass, and before Roman could stop herself, she was arching her spine back to meet him. 

He chuckled again, a satisfied little rasping sound that made her jaw clench and sent a shiver down her spine. He gently squeezed her throat, and his other hand started tugging her shirt out of her trousers. 

Eager now – and annoyed by how eager she was – Roman reached up and dug her nails into his wrist. He hissed in pain and nipped her ear, and his other hand suddenly burrowed into her smallclothes. He ran one finger through her slickness, and her breath exploded from her lungs in a gasp. 

Samson pressed his lips to her ear. “There’s my pretty bird,” he rasped. 

She writhed her hips. He was slipping his fingers gently through her folds as though to spread her slippery moisture, and it wasn’t enough. She needed a firmer touch. 

“I’m not your pretty bird,” she gasped.

He grumbled against her ear, then pressed his finger to her clit. “You sure about that?”

She couldn’t reply. Her mind had been wiped blank by the bliss of his finger on her clit. Samson had complained about his blue balls, but he wasn’t the only one who’d gone for six days with no sex.

He petted her swollen little bud and adjusted his other hand around her throat, and Roman burst out a pleasured moan and bucked her hips toward his hand. Samson chuckled and nipped her ear again. “This is nice, Bird, but I’d rather have my tongue here instead,” he grumbled. He angled his wrist and delved one finger inside of her.

She arched her spine and cried out. Then Samson’s hand left her throat to grip her mouth instead. “Shh,” he murmured. “You have to keep quiet, eh? I don’t want to get thrown out for defiling Lady Leandra Hawke’s precious girl.” 

His voice was curled with sarcasm, and if Roman wasn’t so frustrated, she would have found it funny. She bucked her hips and groaned into his palm, then pried his hands away from her body. “Lie down,” she panted. “Lie down. I’m going to fuck your face.” She started hastily pulling off her clothes.

He chuckled as he laid back on her bed. “Well, that’s nice of you.”

“What is?” she said distractedly. She crawled over him and settled her knees on either side of his head. 

“Letting me do this while I’m lyin’ down,” he said. “I meant it when I said I was tired.”

She scowled down at him. “You’re so fucking lazy,” she scolded, then she lowered her pussy to meet his mouth.

He slicked his tongue firmly along the length of her sex, and Roman arched her spine and tilted her hips down toward his face. His hands curled around her thighs, and Roman savoured the rough feeling of his callused palms on the tender skin of her inner thighs. 

She grabbed his wrists for leverage and undulated her hips toward his face in a careful rolling rhythm. His mouth was so hot and wet, and the smooth slide of his tongue against her clit was fucking perfect if she ground down toward him in just the right way… 

She eagerly rubbed her pussy against his tongue. He dug his fingers into her thighs and hummed into her flesh, and she dragged in a shaky breath. Fuck, fuck, she was getting close, so close already from the perfect pressure of Samson’s tongue slipping from her clit down to her folds and back up as a perfect heated caress, and when he made that sound, that supremely satisfied masculine sound…

He squeezed her thighs and made that same little growly hum, and Roman gasped. _Smug asshole,_ she thought deliriously, and her climax burst through her body.

She mewled with pleasure and rolled her hips toward his face with even greater eagerness. Samson groaned and dug his nails into her thighs, and the bite of pain only kicked her pleasure higher. A full-body shiver of ecstasy rippled through her limbs, and she braced one hand on the mattress to hold herself upright through the shudders that were wracking her body. 

She moaned and sank her fingers into Samson’s damp hair, and Samson tilted his head away from her pussy. “Hey, I mean it,” he said. “Keep it quiet, Bird.”

She dragged in a breath, then dismounted from his face and glared at him. “ _You_ keep it fucking quiet,” she snapped, and she roughly pulled the waistband of his cotton pants down. 

His erection sprang free from the barrier of his borrowed clothes, and Roman greedily eyed his cock. He was being such an obnoxious shit earlier, and part of her didn’t want to validate his behaviour by fucking him. But now that she was dripping wet from the work of his mouth, she figured she might as well take advantage of his nice hard cock. 

She shot him a dirty look. “I’m not giving you a blowjob. You don’t deserve one.”

He shrugged casually, but his eyes were bright with interest as he watched her. “That’s all right,” he said. “I knew it was a long shot.”

“Good,” she said snidely. Without bothering to push his trousers down all the way, she straddled his hips and undulated against his cock.

 _Fuck,_ he was so hard and sleek. She panted and rubbed herself against his length, and when he groaned and grabbed her hips, and she pried his hands off her body and pinned them to the bed. 

“If you’re going to complain about being tired, then you don’t get to grab me,” she told him. “I’ll fuck you how _I_ want.”

He let out a breathy laugh. “Is that supposed to be a threat? Sounds more like a treat than anything else.”

“Shut the fuck up,” she snapped. She released one of his hands and adjusted his cock, then slammed down onto him.

Samson jolted and gasped, and a burst of pleasure tore through Roman’s body, laced with just a hint of pain from how deep he was striking inside of her. She hastily adjusted her posture, then braced her palms on his abs before starting to fuck him in earnest.

She gasped desperately as she slid up and down his cock. With every driving thrust of his cock filling her up, it felt like the worries and the rage from the past few days were being driven away. Her annoyance about Samson going missing, her worries that something had happened to him, her rage at him for failing to understand her: all of it was slipping away, loosening and untangling from her mind with every sweet hard rise of his cock inside of her, and before long, Roman was riding him in a nearly-mindless frenzy. 

He suddenly squeezed her wrist. “Bird, I’m serious,” he rasped. “You’re really loud. You gotta be quiet.”

“Make me,” she blurted.

He raised one eyebrow, then sat up on one elbow and suddenly grabbed her throat.

A dizzying rush of excitement tore through her body. She instinctively grabbed his wrist, but instead of pulling his hand away, she pressed his hand more firmly to her throat.

He let out a rough little laugh and squeezed her throat a bit more firmly. “Let’s try this again,” he growled. “Be quiet now, eh? Be nice and quiet while you fuck me, and then I’ll fill you up with my come.”

His nasty words brought another head rush of pleasure to her already-buzzing brain. His hand on her throat wasn’t actually doing anything to silence her, but she fucked him quickly and silently all the same, and somehow the effort of keeping herself silent was enough to heighten her pleasure even further.

Samson, meanwhile, was grunting more heartily with her every thrust, and Roman watched feverishly as his sallow face twisted with pleasure. A blissful minute later, his fingers tightened on her throat even more, and his cock became even harder inside of her.

She whimpered quietly and fucked him faster, and he burst out a groan. “Fuck, Roman…” he begged. He fell back on the bed, and Roman felt the pulsing of his cock as he came.

She kept rising and falling on the length of his cock until he shuddered and gripped her hips. “Stop, stop,” he groaned. “Bloody hell, Bird, I can’t keep up.”

She scoffed softly. “You really must be tired,” she taunted, and she carefully lifted herself off of his cock. She immediately felt the hot trickle of his climax dripping from her depths, and she purposely stayed poised over his body for a second so his own seed dripped onto his abs.

He groaned. “You’re such a bitch. I just took a bath.”

She smirked vindictively, then rolled off of him and wandered over to her changing screen to put on her dressing gown. When she turned around to face him again, he was still lounging half-naked on his back, but his arms were tucked comfortably behind his head. 

“Thank the bloody Maker I got my hands on some lyrium before I came over here,” he said. “You’d probably have killed me otherwise, fucking me like that.”

He was grinning, and it sounded like he was trying to praise her, but his words made her pause. “Are you high right now?” she asked.

His smile faded. “Eh, not really. It’s more like I’m normal on the dust, and without the dust, I’m… well, you saw.” 

Roman frowned. Samson dropped her gaze and idly reached down to scratch his belly, then flinched when his fingers touched the semen on his abs. 

He grimaced. “Aw, Maker’s bloody…” He shot her a baleful look.

She huffed a little laugh. It served him right. She turned toward the door. “I’m getting a snack. I’ll be back soon.”

“Hey, wait,” he said.

She paused and glanced at him. “What?”

He gazed at her for a second, then smiled faintly and scratched the back of his neck. “Er, nothing.”

She shot him a funny look, then jerked her chin at his belly. “Clean that shit up. It’s disgusting.”

He grinned, and Roman turned away and left the bedroom before he could see her smiling. 

When she returned to the bedroom about ten minutes later with some buttered toast, it was to find Samson fast asleep on the bed. 

His trousers were back on, so he’d clearly cleaned himself up. But he was curled on his side on top of the blankets with his limbs sprawled haphazardly, almost as though he’d fallen asleep before he could get under the covers or even properly position himself. 

_Lazy asshole,_ she thought. She hadn’t really intended for him to sleep in her bed; she’d had the half-formed notion that she would make up Carver’s bed for him. 

She studied him pensively for a moment. She could just wake him up and make him move, but as she stood there looking at him, a weird sort of ache took root in her chest.

She swallowed hard. She must be hungrier than she thought. She took a big bite of toast and settled into her armchair, then picked up her copy of _Hard in Hightown_.

She slowly ate the toast, including the piece she’d brought for Samson, then tried to read her book. But eventually she decided to go to bed, even though it was early. 

She put aside her book and hung up her robe, then slid under the covers beside Samson. She put out the alchemical lamp on her bedside table and settled into her pillows, and when her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she gazed idly at the hazy outline of Samson’s bare shoulder in the dark.

She lay there for a minute. Then she slid out of bed and padded over to the armchair. She picked up the lush velvet throw blanket, then covered Samson with it. 

_There,_ she thought. This way, he couldn’t whine about getting cold in the middle of the night.

She climbed back into bed and lay on her side facing him. Then Samson grunted and started rolling over.

Roman froze. He was rolling over to face her. He settled on his side and sighed, and Roman held her breath until she realized that he was still asleep. 

She exhaled slowly. His face was slack with sleep, but he still looked sad somehow. 

She nibbled the inside of her cheek and studied his slightly-chapped lips. She still couldn’t believe he’d dared to kiss her like he had: taking her face in his hands and being all gentle like some stupid fucking romance novel hero. What the hell had he been thinking?

 _Fucking idiot,_ she thought. She studied his lips for a moment longer. Then she abruptly rolled over so she was facing away from him.

She nestled into her pillows and closed her eyes. Then, with Samson’s slow and heavy breathing just behind her, Roman fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am [Pikapeppa on Tumblr,](https://pikapeppa.tumblr.com/) and your wonderful artist and creator of Romie is [the inimitable Schoute!](https://schoute.tumblr.com/) xoxo


	7. Hurt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know how Hawke's LI shows up at the mansion to comfort them after Leandra's death? This chapter shows how Samson does his best to comfort a distraught and dysfunctional Roman Hawke. 😭
> 
> Just to be on the safe side, I’m going to call this chapter dubcon. Very mild dubcon, though, I think. The usual tags apply for these two: some S&M/pain kink, some spanking this time, and rough sex.

###  ROMAN 

Roman’s throat was sore.

It was the screaming. She knew that was why her throat was hurting, and why it tasted like blood. At least the blood she was tasting was her own and not this sick fucker Quentin’s, thanks to Anders’s quick thinking.

Anders lowered his hands with a sigh. His barrier disappeared, and the suspended haze of blood that the barrier was holding back spattered to the ground. 

Roman curled her lip at the blood. It was all that remained of what had once been Quentin’s heart and rib cage. _Fenris has nothing on me,_ she thought viciously, and she spat on the puddle of blood. 

“Maker,” Anders said softly. 

She rounded on him, prepared to tell him off if he said _one fucking word_ about the irony of her using blood magic to kill the blood mage who’d killed her mother, but he wasn’t looking at her; his eyes were on the body crumpled on the ground — the body wearing the wedding dress. 

The body that was _not_ her mother. 

Roman didn’t look at the body. She stared at the pool of blood on the floor and tried to ignore the nauseating thrumming of her heart. Two seconds ago, that thrum had been a loud and roaring beat: a bloody beat in her ears and on the inside of her left forearm where she’d drawn her power from. But that beat was gone now, leaving her with a faint and familiar sting of pain on the inside of her arm where she’d drawn her own blood, and an all-too familiar heavy ache in her chest that matched the ache from when Father and Bethany— 

_No,_ she thought viciously. No, no, she wasn’t going to sink into this pit again, not again. It was too awful and it hurt too much, and she hadn’t been able to prevent it no matter how fucking hard she tried… 

“Hawke,” Aveline called.

She forced herself to look at Aveline, who was kneeling with Anders beside the body that was _not_ Leandra Hawke. “What?” she said.

“She’s still alive,” Aveline said.

Roman’s entire body froze. She stared wordlessly at Aveline, whose expression made it clear that Leandra might be alive right now, but not for long. 

She stood there like a fucking golem until Varric came to stand in front of her. “Hey,” he said quietly. “Are you–”

“I’m fine,” Roman said automatically. Then she forced her wooden feet to approach the limp body in the wedding dress. 

She knelt in front of the body, and her stomach roiled. Quentin had stolen her mother’s face. Her mother’s face on this haphazard puzzle of other women’s bodies… 

A pulse of rage throbbed in her ears, so scorching and sudden that it was disorienting. Then Leandra’s mouth moved to speak. “You came,” she rasped, and then she seemed to run out of air. 

“Of course I came,” Roman said. She brushed a stray lock of hair from her mother’s face. “You went missing, for fuck’s sake. Of course I fucking came.”

Leandra winced at Roman’s rough language, and the expression was so very much her _mother_ that Roman’s entire chest seemed to seize. Slowly and painfully, Leandra drew a breath into the lungs that didn’t belong to her, and Roman tensely waited for her mother to speak again. 

“Don’t be angry, love,” she whispered. “I’ll be all right. Don’t be angry.”

“Are you kidding me?” Roman burst out. “How can you tell me not to be angry? Look what he fucking did to you!”

Leandra didn’t reply. Her eyes were vacant and unfocused, and with a lightning bolt of shock, Roman realized that she was dead.

She sat there for a long moment without moving or breathing. Then Varric touched her shoulder. “Hawke–” 

She flinched from his hand and shoved herself to her feet. “Don’t touch me,” she said.

Anders stood up with her, and Aveline lifted the body into her arms as she rose. “I’ll take her to the Chantry,” she said. “The Grand Cleric—”

“No,” Roman snapped. “No fucking Chantry.”

Aveline’s lips tightened slightly. “She was a devout lady. She would have wanted—”

“I said no!” Roman roared. “She’s not going to the fucking Chantry!”

“I’ll take her,” Anders said loudly. “I’ll take her to the clinic and prepare her for… for whatever means you want to… send her off.” He raised his eyebrows at Roman. “Is that all right?”

She nodded brusquely, and Aveline carefully transferred the body to Anders. Anders looked at Roman. “You can come see her tomorrow, if you like.”

She nodded again. Then Aveline spoke up. “I’ll escort Anders back to his clinic to avoid any further incidents. Then I’ll go make a report.” She took a step toward Roman. “Are you sure you’ll–”

“I’m fine,” Roman said loudly. She turned on her heel and strode toward the nearest exit. 

She made her way through the dank and roughly-hewn stone halls of the abandoned foundry, barely paying attention to where she was going. For fuck’s sake, she could barely think. 

No, that was the problem — all she _could_ do was think, and the thoughts she kept conjuring were horrible ones. Her mother had been abducted by a mage who wanted to reconstitute his dead wife? _That’s_ what her mother had died for? For some fucking sad-sack asshole who couldn’t get over his fucking wife? 

The more she thought about it, the more her pulse seemed to beat in her ears. _He did all this just to bring back his wife,_ she thought. Quentin had killed multiple women, waited for years, hid out in this disgusting fucking cave, and attempted some hack job necromancy shit that only Nevarrans knew how to do, all for the sake of bringing back his dead fucking wife?

_If that’s what love turns people into, then all the more reason to avoid it like the fucking Blight,_ she thought. She climbed up a ladder and carefully shifted aside the manhole cover, then climbed back into the humid nighttime air of Lowtown. 

Before she could slide the manhole cover back in place, she heard Varric’s voice echoing up the shaft. “Hey, slow down,” he called. 

Roman slumped in exasperation, then waited impatiently until he clambered out of the sewer. Once they were both standing in the street again, Roman scowled at him. “I’m fine,” she said, and she turned away from him and began striding back to her house in Hightown. 

Varric caught up with her and continued to jog along beside her, and Roman shot him a filthy look. “I said I’m fucking fine. Go away.”

Varric glanced at her. “At least let me get you as far as your house.”

She glared at him with increasing frustration. She’d told him to go away and to leave her alone with her own shitty problems, so why wouldn’t he just do as she’d asked? And why was he _looking_ at her like there was something wrong with her? 

Her chest and throat felt like they were burning, and her gut was roiling like a kettle ready to boil over. Before she could say something cruel to Varric that she’d really regret, she set off at a run.

She ran all the way back to Hightown, not stopping even when her lungs and her legs began to burn from the strain. The burn was good, in fact — it pulled her focus from the despicable spin of thoughts on her head. But as soon as she got to the mansion, the horrible reality of the night’s events returned.

Gamlen was in the house, pacing back and forth in the study. When Roman stepped into the doorway, he looked up, and the hope in his face made the twisting feeling in her gut grow stronger. 

Gamlen took a step toward her. “Did you find her?” he asked eagerly. “Is she – where…” He trailed off, and his face went pale as his eyes darted over her filthy clothes and the cut on her arm, which was crusted now with blood. 

Hie eyes darted back up to her face, and he froze. “No,” he whispered.

She could see the accusation in his face. _Fuck this,_ she thought, and she turned on her heel and went to the kitchen. 

She wrenched open the high cupboard over the oven pulled out one of the bottles of rum she hid there. As she pried off the cap, it occurred to her with a pang that she didn’t need to hide any of the booze anymore. Her mother wasn’t here to nag her about it. 

Her heart twisted as though a giant fist had gripped it. _No,_ she told herself viciously, and she took a big gulp straight from the bottle. 

Gamlen shuffled into the kitchen. “What happened?” he said plaintively. “How did it… what happened?”

“She fucking died. It doesn’t matter how,” Roman grunted. _For love,_ she thought angrily. _Because some disgusting twisted asshole loved his wife so much that it ruined him, just like it ruins everyone._ She took two more gulps from the bottle. 

“It was magic, wasn’t it?” Gamlen asked. “That’s why you’re not telling me. It was a mage who did this to her!”

A breathtaking rush of anger twisted in her chest and rippled through her limbs. “Get out,” she said in a hard voice, and she raised the bottle to her lips. 

Gamlen let out a dry sob. “A mage. A mage killed Leandra! Maker…” He sobbed again. “Maybe the Templars are right. Lock the mages up! Throw away the key!”

Roman spun toward him. “Get out!” she bellowed. “Get out of my fucking house!” 

Gamlen recoiled, his face twisted with tears. That was when Roman noticed that Varric was standing in the kitchen doorway. 

Her rib cage seemed to swell, and the swelling feeling was expanding to her throat and burning up toward her eyes. “Get him out of my house,” she said to Varric. She grabbed the bottle of rum from the counter and shoved past Varric and Gamlen both, then made for the stairs and took them two at a time.

She strode into her bedroom and slammed the door behind her. In front of the fireplace, Monty yelped and sat upright, then gave Roman a worried look when she plopped down on the bed. 

She glared at the mabari. “She told me not to be angry,” she told him. “ _That’s_ the last fucking thing she said to me. ‘Don’t be angry’.” She put the bottle of rum on the bedside table and hauled off her boots and socks, then haphazardly shed her pouch belt and her staff and her vest.

Her mother wanted her _not_ to be angry after she’d just been killed for the stupidest, most pointless reason in the world? Fine. There was only one way that Roman could dull this horrible fucking feeling in her gut that was threatening to turn into yet another raw and gaping wound. 

She picked up the bottle again and sat heavily on the carpet beside Monty. She uncapped the bottle once more and tossed it in the fire, then raised the bottle to her mabari. “Cheers,” she said, and she gulped a third of the rum down in one go.

###  SAMSON 

“Move your useless arse. _Now_.”

A dull thump of pain shot through Samson’s hip. He grunted at the rude awakening, then pried open his gritty eyes and peered through the dark at his assailant. 

It was a city guardsman: one of the not-so-nice ones that the guard captain hadn’t sniffed out yet. Samson carefully rolled his tongue around in his mouth – Maker, his mouth was so bloody dry – then gave the guardsman a pitiful look. “Can’t a man get an honourable night’s rest in the street?”

“You wouldn’t know honour if it kicked you in the face,” the guardsman sneered.

_Takes one to know one,_ Samson thought. An observant man could pick up all kinds of tidbits here in the slums if he listened hard enough, and Samson just happened to know that this particular guard had a sidepiece here in Lowtown that his lady wife certainly didn’t know about. 

But Samson didn’t say anything. That kind of information could turn into coin someday, after all, and coin was in short supply at the moment. 

He thought morosely of the nearly-empty little envelope in the inner pocket of his vest. Then the guard kicked Samson’s hip again. “Move your arse. I mean it. Unless you really want me to give you the boot.”

“All right, all right,” Samson grumbled. There was no point complaining that he hadn’t been bothering anyone, nor that there was hardly anyone around at this hour of night for him to bother. That would just earn him another kick or a cuff in the face, and getting struck didn’t quite glance off of him the way it used to when he had a Templar’s suit of armour to his name. 

He pushed himself upright, then ambled away in the opposite direction that the guardsman had been going. He turned a corner and slipped into an empty alley – empty aside from a few dilapidated crates and a broken barrel, at least – then leaned against the wall and sighed. 

Maker, he was jonesing. He had hoped to get at least one more full night of sleep before the shakes got him, but that blasted guard had ruined that. 

He stuck his hands in his pockets and tapped his foot. _I can’t take it now,_ he thought. _If I take it now, that’s it. No coin, no dust, nothing._ He usually kept just enough powdered lyrium to tide him over until the next time he made a little coin, but he’d tried something different last week, and… 

Maker’s balls, he shouldn’t have bothered trying. He’d never heard of any Templars going off of lyrium and not losing their minds, so he didn’t know why he thought he’d be different. 

But still, he’d tried. Last week, he’d tucked his lyrium stash into his special hiding spot in Darktown and tried to go without. He’d spent his coin on food instead and had enjoyed a few days of meals that he’d paid for himself instead of scrounging from a bin or wheedling the cook at the Hanged Man into giving him. And when Roman came by with her usual sneer and a ‘leftover sandwich that I couldn’t fucking finish’ — a leftover sandwich she’d clearly made just for him — he was proud to tell her that he didn’t need it for once, since he’d already eaten that day. 

That pride hadn’t lasted long, though. Two days after trying to quit, the headache started, followed shortly by tremors and the sweats. The fourth day found him prying his lyrium stash out of its hidey-hole in Darktown and inhaling a third of it in one go. He woke up a day later while some urchin was stealing coin from the pouch on his belt, and he counted himself incredibly lucky that he hadn’t been robbed of his lyrium as well while he was out cold.

Ashamed but not surprised by his own failure, he’d taken some of his scant remaining coin to the bathhouse and paid for a rare bath, then changed into one of his two remaining clean-ish shirts and returned to his usual routine of taking a little bit of dust every day. Why break a routine when it worked, after all? Some people like Roman might have the balls to pull themselves out of the gutter and start over, but Samson clearly wasn’t that type of man – not when his balls were held in the iron grip of the tiny almost-empty envelope in the pocket of his vest. He didn’t know why he’d even bothered, really. 

He leaned his head back against the wall and thought of Roman’s pitch-dark eyes – eyes that seemed to hold all the darkness of a starless city night. Eyes that caught and held on his face instead of skipping over him like he wasn’t there. 

_Damn Bird,_ he thought. He imagined the look she’d probably give him if she ever found him crumpled and shaking in a puddle of his own vomit and sweat: that snakelike, flat-eyed, non-judgmental stare with her dark, dark eyes.

It was that imagined look on her face that tipped him over. He was used to pity and disgust, but if Roman ever saw him looking _that_ pitiful and disgusting, she’d never touch him again, and that would be a bloody shame.

Not that he cared particularly what Roman Hawke thought of him. She was a cranky bitch, after all. But she was a firecracker of a fuck, and he still couldn’t quite credit his luck that _he_ was the one she kept coming back to. 

He sighed, then dug into his pocket and pulled out the precious envelope of powdered lyrium. Just as he was about to inhale it, he heard voices approaching. 

Two voices, both men. Samson sidled further into the shadows of the alley so as not to be disturbed, but then when one of the voices said _her_ name, he paused to listen. 

“I’m telling you, the body was Hawke’s mother. That doctor and the big guard-captain one was carrying ‘er up from the sewers. The sewers, I tell ya! What d’you suppose they was doing down there?” 

“ _Merde._ I can’t imagine,” the second voice said. “Wait a minute. The body? Was she _dead?_ ”

Samson’s shoulders tensed in surprise. Then the first voice was speaking again. “Dead as a doornail. Worse yet, she was wearing a wedding dress.”

“Wedding dress?” the second voice exclaimed. 

The first one hushed him, and Samson shifted slightly closer to the mouth of the alley to hear. “Keep your voice down! But yeh, a wedding dress, all right. The doctor said ‘e was going to ‘look after her’ for Hawke, but what d’you suppose that means? He’s a mage, isn’t he? You don’t think… blood magic–”

There was a dull thump and a yelp of pain. “Shut your mouth, idiot,” the Orlesian voice hissed. “That mage-doctor’s the only one who heals us without asking for nasty favours in return.” 

“All right, all right. You didn’t have to hit me, though.”

The two voices moved away. Samson stood in the alley chewing the inside of his cheek for a moment. Roman’s mother was dead? They found her in the sewers? Did Roman know about this? She must know about it, or else why would Anders and the guard-captain have Leandra’s body?

He thought hard for a minute. Then he set off to the Hanged Man. 

He quietly slipped inside of the boisterous tavern. A careful glance around the room told him that Roman wasn’t here. Instead, he spotted Varric sitting at a table at the center of the room, but Samson’s sense of foreboding only worsened at the sight of Varric’s expression.

_He looks as grim as the bloody Gallows,_ Samson thought. He wasn’t sure he’d ever seen Varric Tethras wearing anything other than his usual ‘I’m-everybody’s-best-friend’ smile. 

Samson slowly sidled around the edge of the room to get closer to Varric’s table without being seen, and all the while, he berated himself about the fact that he was even here. What was he going to do — ask Roman’s best bloody friend for gossip based on some bullshit he’d heard while skulking around in a dark alleyway?

_Asking Varric wouldn’t be the strangest thing in the world,_ he thought. It wasn’t like he and Varric had never spoken before the Hawke family had come to town; Varric had paid Samson for information a couple of times here and there. 

But this was different. This wasn’t the exchange of a tip or two for a silver; this was personal. But _why_ was it personal? Why did Samson even care? It wasn’t like he and Roman even liked each other. Every time he saw her, they ended up in some sort of argument that ended more often than not in a fuck. Not that Samson was complaining about the fucking, but the fucking didn’t cover the fact that she thought he was scum, even though she kept on coming back to talk to him. It also didn’t make up for her being so bloody bitchy, even if she brought him food or coin or both every time she saw him. 

It didn’t cover up the fact that he was starting to wish he didn’t need the coin or the food, and that she would keep coming to see him anyway. 

_Damn bloody Bird,_ he thought irately. He slumped down onto the unoccupied edge of a bench and tried to figure out what the fuck he was thinking by coming here.

A minute later, Isabela swanned over to Varric and leaned her elbows on the table, and Samson watched from the corner of his eye as she nudged Varric with her shoulder. “Listen, I was just at the Rose, and Hawke’s uncle is there bawling his eyes out,” she said. “He was really carrying on. ‘Leandra’s dead, mages should be locked up, why didn’t Hawke stop it,’ blah blah… It was really souring the mood.”

Her tone was playful, but she looked worried — even more so when Varric sighed. “We probably shouldn’t talk about this right now,” he muttered.

The pirate’s eyes went wide. Then she sat beside him. “Is she all right?”

“Would _you_ be?” Varric said dryly.

Isabela snorted and lifted Varric’s stein to her lips. “You’ve never met my mother.”

Varric smiled faintly and held up a finger for a waitress to bring another drink. Samson, meanwhile, had heard enough to get a broad picture of the situation. Roman’s mother was dead, her uncle was wailing about mages in the Blooming Rose, Anders and the guard-captain were looking after the body while Isabela and Varric were here…

_She’s alone in the house,_ Samson thought. And when catastrophic things happened to Roman Hawke, there was only one way she knew how to cope. 

Samson stood from the bench and sidled toward the exit. Just before leaving the Hanged Man, he glanced back at Varric’s table. 

Varric was looking at him. When their eyes met, Varric nodded a subtle greeting.

_Canny bastard,_ Samson thought ruefully. He nodded in return, then left the Hanged Man and made his way to Hightown.

He was careful to keep to the shadows as he entered the nicer part of the city. He knocked on the door to the Amell mansion, expecting the Hawkes’ little elven housekeeper to answer the door. 

Instead, the door was thrown wide by Roman herself. Her face fell into a look of shock, then twisted into a sneer. “What do _you_ want?” she slurred. 

She was completely fucking plastered. Her eyes were red and swollen, and there was a mostly-empty bottle of rum dangling loosely from her hand. The door was supporting most of her weight, yet she was still managing to sway in place. 

“What?” she barked.

He gathered himself and tucked his hands in his pockets. “I heard about your mum,” he said.

If possible, her face twisted even more. “How the fuck did _you_ hear?”

He gave her a reproving look. “I live in Lowtown, Bird. People aren’t exactly quiet.”

She stared at him silently. And for the first time since he’d known her, the twisted look on her face started turning into something other than rage. 

_Misery._ She looked completely miserable, and a painful feeling wrenched inside of his chest. Then Roman shuffled away from the door. “Go away,” she spat, and she tried to slam the door in his face. 

Instead, her hand slipped on the edge of the door, and she tripped over her own feet and fell heavily onto her side. The bottle hit the floor beside her and toppled over, spilling the remainder of its contents on the carpet. 

“Fucking fuck,” she complained, and she tried to push herself upright. 

Samson stepped into the foyer and carefully closed the door behind him, then reached down and took her hand to pull her up. 

Naturally, she tried to fight him off. “Don’t touch me,” she railed. “Don’t fucking touch me!”

Her waving fist and feet were feeble and uncoordinated, however. Samson pulled her up, then looped his arm around her waist. “Come on, you bloody wildcat,” he muttered. “You need to sleep this off.” With no small amount of effort, he hauled her toward the stairs. 

She was barely able to put one foot in front of the other. “Fuck you, Raleigh Samson,” she slurred. “See, I know your fucking firs’ name too. How d’you like _that_ , you smug asshole?”

He grunted wordlessly. In truth, it had been so long since he’d gone by anything other than his surname that his given name barely sounded like it belonged to him anymore. 

By the time he managed to drag her uncoordinated body to the base of the stairs, he was breathing hard. He eyed the stairs with no small amount of bitterness. If he was still a Templar, he’d be strapping and strong, and carrying Roman up to her bedroom would barely be an effort. Hell, when he was a Templar, he would have been strong enough to carry her across half of Hightown without batting an eye. Now, however… 

_No bloody choice,_ he thought. He blew out a sharp breath, then quickly scooped her up and started up the stairs. 

“Hey!” she blurted. “Put me down, you fucking — you shithead!” She wriggled in his arms and pushed his chest, and he stumbled against the bannister.

“Damn it, Bird, settle down,” he snapped. “You want me to break both our necks?”

“What if I do?” she shot back. 

He gave her a flat look, then shook his head and started up the stairs again as quickly as he could. Thankfully, she didn’t wiggle anymore, though she kept on cursing him and striking at his chest with her limp fists. By the time he was stumbling into her bedroom, she had pried open the loose neckline of his shirt and was digging her nails into his chest.

He clenched his jaw and dropped her unceremoniously onto the bed, then looked down at his chest; it was peppered with little half-moon marks from her nails. 

He scowled at her. “Next time I’ll leave you on the bloody floor,” he threatened. 

“Good,” she said belligerently. “I didn’t ask you to come here. I didn’t ask for your fucking help. Where’s my rum?”

“You spilled it when you fell over,” he said.

She glared at him. “I want it. I want my fucking rum!”

He wilted. “It’s spilled on the floor, Bird,” he said in exasperation. “You going to suck it out of the carpet?”

“Why not? It’s what you would do,” she said. Rather unkindly, in Samson’s opinion.

He tucked his hands in his pockets. “Maybe I would. But you’re better off than me.”

To his surprise, her face suddenly twisted with rage. “Shut the fuck up. I’m not better than you,” she yelled. “I’m not better than you!”

He recoiled slightly at her sudden temper. “That’s not what I said–”

“I’m not better!” she screamed. “I’m not better than you, and I need my fucking rum!”

“All right, all right, calm down,” he said loudly. “I’ll go get it. Maker’s fucking balls.” He turned away and trudged down the stairs with no clear idea what the fuck he was doing, either in an immediate sense — the rum really was gone — or in a longer-term, ‘why did I come to Hightown in the first place’ sense. Roman clearly didn’t want him here, and the last thing he needed was to be screamed at by a mean drunk. If he wanted to be treated like this, he could just go back to Lowtown and sit down across from the bloody Hanged Man.

He sighed and meandered into the kitchen. Maybe there was another bottle of rum here somewhere. He started going through the cupboards while vaguely hoping that none of the household staff would show up and throw him out like the vagrant that he actually was. 

A moment later, Monty wandered into the kitchen with his tail between his legs. Samson tensed for a second — Maker, this mabari was fucking _big_ — then gave Monty a knowing look. “Where’s the booze, then, eh?” 

Monty cocked his head unhelpfully, and Samson sighed and continued his search. Eventually he found a half-empty bottle of whiskey at the back of the cupboard above the oven. He pulled the bottle out, then made his way back up the stairs to Roman’s bedroom with Monty in his wake.

She was passed out on the bed. One of her legs was dangling off the edge of the bed while the other foot was on a pillow, and her face was half-obscured by her long raven hair.

He eyed her for a moment with an odd heavy feeling in his rib cage. He put the bottle on the bedside table, then rearranged Roman’s body so she was lying on her side with her head on the pillow where it belonged. 

By the time he’d repositioned her, he was breathing hard again from hauling her dead weight around, and she was still completely unconscious. But at least now she wouldn’t choke on her own vomit, if she did end up vomiting. Samson had seen people who’d died that way after a heavy night out, and it was an ugly way to go.

He sat heavily on the edge of the bed beside her and sighed. He was exhausted, and the trembling in his hands and arms weren’t entirely from the need for lyrium. 

Now that Roman was asleep on her bed, he should probably leave. She’d told him she didn’t want him here, after all, and he wasn’t in the mood for any more of her shit. 

He sighed again and looked at her. Even in her sleep, she still looked like she was frowning; something about the sharp angle of her eyebrows or the pout of her full lips. She wasn’t what most people would call a beauty, especially with her sharp and lanky body that was all knees and shoulders and barely any tits to speak of. But Samson continued to gaze silently at her, marveling at how young and… oddly vulnerable she looked in her sleep. 

She was a pretty bird, lying so still and limp like a sparrow that had slammed into a windowpane. 

He gazed at her for a moment longer, then stood up. He made his way to the other side of the bed, then kicked off his shoes and lay down. _Might as well take advantage of a bed while I’ve got the chance,_ he thought, and he closed his eyes. 

A moment later, a heavy weight bounced onto the bed beside him.

He jolted in alarm, then relaxed; it was just the bloody mabari settling in right between himself and Roman. 

Samson shot Monty a resentful look. “Just don’t breathe in my face, all right?” he whispered.

Monty let out a very quiet _woof_ , then settled his chin on his paws, and Samson sighed before closing his eyes once more. 

A moment later, he fell asleep — and the unfinished envelope of lyrium dust in his pocket didn’t even cross his mind.

******************************

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

For the second time that night, Samson jolted awake at the sound of an abrasive voice. 

He sat up abruptly and peered at Roman. She was sitting upright in bed and glaring at him.

He sighed. “Say no more. I’m going.” He shifted toward the edge of the bed. 

“You don’t have to leave,” she said. “I just asked why the fuck you’re here.”

He paused and glanced at her. She really didn’t remember why he’d come? He supposed he shouldn’t be surprised, given how much she’d drunk. “I heard that your mum died,” he said. He shrugged and scratched the back of his neck. “I know she carried on at you, but your mum’s your mum, so…”

Her face closed up. “I don’t need a fucking hug or a pat on the back. I’m fine on my own.”

All of a sudden, he’d had enough. He shoved himself to his feet and glared at her. “Fine. I’m off, then. You go crawl back into your bottle.” He waved angrily at the half-finished bottle of whiskey on the bedside table. “I brought it up for your ladyship, all right?” he said sarcastically. “Enjoy.”

Her lip curled. “Fuck you.”

“No, Bird, fuck _you_ ,” he retorted.

“Don’t you fucking talk to me like that!” she yelled.

“Then give it a rest for one night, eh?” he yelled back. “Just give it a rest! Aren’t you tired? I’m bloody tired, and my mum didn’t get murdered tonight.”

Her face puckered, and Samson immediately felt bad. He sighed and rubbed his face. “Look, Bird, I didn’t mean… Maker’s balls.”

“Come here,” she said quietly. 

He narrowed his eyes. She still looked angry, but at least she wasn’t yelling anymore. 

He slowly and warily approached the bed, then shoved his hands in his pockets. “What?”

She patted the bed beside her. “Sit here.”

He eyed her suspiciously, then sat beside her. “What–”

She suddenly slapped him across the face. Shocked, he brought his hand to his stinging cheek. “What the–”

She raised her hand again, and he snatched her wrist. “Keep your hands to yourself, or I’ll keep ‘em for you,” he threatened.

She leaned closer to him. “Try it, asshole,” she hissed. “Just try me.”

He growled in frustration, then shoved her back onto the bed and pinned her hands above her head. She bucked and kicked his shin, and he crawled on top of her and straddled her waist so she couldn’t kick.

“Stop it!” he yelled. 

“You can’t make me!” she railed. “You can’t do anything! You can’t protect anyone, you can’t keep anyone safe, you can’t — you can’t… Fuck you!”

He narrowed his eyes. He wasn’t convinced anymore that it was really _him_ that she was insulting. “Tell me what happened tonight,” he said.

“No!” 

“Tell me!” he yelled.

“A mage turned my mother into a fucking rag doll made of other people’s body parts, all right?” she bellowed. “That’s what fucking happened. And now she’s dead, and I blew that asshole into a million pieces, so _fuck you!_ ”

Some of his frustration left him. No wonder Roman was such a mess right now. “She was killed with blood magic?” he asked.

“Is that all you give a shit about?” she shouted. “The only thing that you can think is that it was fucking blood magic?”

“That’s not–” He broke off. There was no point. She was looking at him now with so much rage that he might as well have killed her mother himself. 

He released her wrists and shifted off of the bed. “Look, Bird, if you just want someone to yell at, go pick a fucking fight at the Hanged Man. I’ve had enough.” He stalked toward her bedroom door, but before he could open it, she strode over to him and grabbed his arm. 

He twisted his arm out of her grip, and she grabbed the collar of his shirt in both hands. “Fuck me,” she said.

He gaped at her. “What?”

She lunged toward him and nipped the side of his neck, and he gasped and flinched. “Ow!” 

“Fuck me!” she insisted, and she reached down and rubbed her hand over his hard cock — wait, why in the Maker’s bloody name was he _hard?_

He stood there stupidly, unable to breathe from the pressure of her palm on his cock. She pulled insistently on the collar of his shirt. “Fuck me, Samson,” she said. “Just fuck me.”

He sighed loudly. “Bird–”

“Fuck me!” she yelled.

Frustrated now, he grabbed both of her wrists and hauled her back to the bed, then pushed her down. “You hit me and scream at me, and you think I should fuck you?” he said incredulously.

“Yes!” she snapped. She pulled her shirt off and threw it on the floor.

Maker’s balls, she wasn’t wearing a bra. Samson dragged his eyes from her nipples back up to her face. “Why would I fuck a mouthy bitch who bites me like a bloody wildcat for no reason?” he demanded.

“I don’t know!” she bellowed. “I don’t know why you keep coming here and spending time with me. Probably because you’re fucked in the head from lyrium. But you keep showing up here and hanging around like a bad rash, so while you’re here, you should fuck me.”

“I keep coming ‘ere because you keep asking me to come!” he shouted. But even as the words left his mouth, he knew this wasn’t true this time. This time, he’d shown up here of his own accord.

Sure enough, Roman latched onto this flaw in his reasoning. “I didn’t want you here for this!” she railed. “I don’t want anyone here for this! This is — I’m too — just—” She broke off and swallowed hard, then stood up and started unbuttoning her pants. “For fuck’s sake, will you just fuck me?”

He glared at her, and she shoved her pants and smallclothes off. “Come on, fuck me!” she taunted.

He stared stupidly at the damp patch of midnight-black curls between her legs. Maker’s bloody balls, she was wet already. This made no fucking sense. He opened his mouth to tell her so.

“Fine,” he said instead. “You know what, fine, I will.” He stalked toward her and wrapped her hair in his fist, then yanked her head back.

She gasped and grabbed his shirt, then dug her nails viciously into his chest, and he gasped as a rush of pain and pleasure spilled through his chest and down to his groin. “You drive me bloody nuts, you know that?” he snarled.

“Good,” she panted. “Maybe you’ll fuck me hard enough for once, then.” 

He curled his lip at her insult, then pulled her head back further and bit her throat, and she moaned and grabbed his throbbing cock through his pants. He gasped against her neck, then shoved her back into the bed, and a few frenzied heartbeats later, he was naked and she was on her hands and knees, and he was behind her and shoving her down even further onto the bed— 

“Get flat on your chest, Bird,” he ordered. “Lift that ass for me.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” she snapped, but still she did as she was told and laid her chest and her cheek on the bed. 

“You’re always telling _me_ what to do,” he retorted. He put on a mocking high-pitched voice. “'Get my rum, fuck me, get out of my house.’ Maybe it’s _my_ turn now to give the orders, eh?” He pulled her hips up and suddenly spanked her. 

She yelped and jolted, and Samson squeezed her buttock. “You want me to fuck you?” he said. “Maybe you should be polite for once and say ‘please’.”

She scoffed. “I’m not going to beg you to fuck me, you piece of shit!”

“You’re not, are you?” he said snarkily, and he spanked her again. 

She cried out and arched her spine, and his cock pulsed at the lustful sound. Maker, she looked so damned good with her back all curved like a cat in heat and her pussy slick with how badly she wanted his cock, and Samson stared greedily at her for a moment before spanking her again, this time on the other buttock. 

She mewled and twisted her hips and clawed at the bed, and Samson bit back a groan. “Say ‘please’, Bird,” he taunted.

“No!” she snapped.

Her voice was breathy with lust. Samson gripped his cock and shifted closer to her, then slid his length teasingly along the slick cleft of her pussy. “Say it,” he threatened. 

She bucked her hips back toward him. “Never,” she moaned. “I’ll never fucking beg you for a f-fucking thing… _ah!_ ” She cried out once more as Samson’s palm met her butt with a sharp crack. 

“Say it!” he barked. 

“Fuck me!” she blurted. “I need you to fuck me!”

“That’s not what I want to hear,” he growled. He slowly rocked his hips toward her, and as her smooth heat coated his cock, he pressed his lips together hard to stop himself from moaning at how bloody _good_ she felt. 

She mewled and arched her spine, trying to twist and take him in, but he gripped her hips firmly so she could only have what he was teasing her with. Roman panted and growled and clenched her fingers in the sheets, and Samson stared at her, enraptured by the sight of her devolving into a nearly feral state of lust. 

He kept sliding his cock through her folds until he was panting too, then spanked her once more, and she jolted. “Please!” she cried. “Just fuck me, please!” 

He gaped at her in surprise, then eagerly gripped the root of his cock and positioned himself behind her. “I knew you couldn’t hold out,” he gasped, and he slammed into her in a hard thrust.

“Yes!” she screamed, and Samson groaned in ecstasy; she was so bloody tight and _wet_. He held still for a moment to gather his wits, but Roman was already wiggling her hips.

“Samson, come _on_ , make yourself useful and fuck me already!” she ordered.

He blew out a sharp breath. “Give a bloody minute, will you?” he panted. “I need a minute, or this’ll be over before I get you halfway there.” 

“Who cares? Just fuck me hard!” she snapped.

He eyed her in puzzlement. She _didn’t_ want him to make her come?

“Fuck me!” she yelled. “Fuck me, fuck me–”

He drew back and slammed into her once more, then again and again until her bed was shaking with the force and speed of their fucking, but it still wasn’t enough for Roman; she pressed her chest more firmly into the bed and lifted her hips higher. “Harder!” she cried. “I need you to fuck me so hard it hurts!” 

He stilled at this. What the hell did she mean by _that_? Sure, he and Roman had always engaged in a certain degree of scratching and biting and the occasional slap during sex, but that was different. That felt… Maker, it felt strange to admit it, but that felt _good_.

The way she’d just said to hurt her… something about it gave him a chill.

Her voice interrupted his troubled thoughts. “Samson, for fuck’s sake–” 

He slammed into her once more, then held still. “You’re not the boss of me,” he said roughly. “ _I’m_ the boss, and I say you’re going to come on my cock if you want me to fuck you any faster.”

She whined and bucked back, but Samson dug his fingers into her hips and slowly withdrew from her. “Touch yourself,” he commanded. “Do it now.”

“Fuck you,” she gasped, but she slipped her hand down between her body and the bed and started caressing her clit. 

“That’s my pretty bird,” he taunted. “Make yourself come on my cock, or I won’t fuck you anymore.”

She gasped and tried to twist her hips in his grip, to no avail. “I hate you,” she moaned. 

He clicked his tongue. “Rude thing to say to the man who’s balls deep inside of you.” He drew back and slid inside of her slowly, and she let out a broken little cry of pleasure. A minute later, her breathing was coming in short sharp pants, and when she came, Samson _felt_ it in the pulsing of her pussy around his cock. 

“Ahh, _fuck, please!_ ” she sobbed.

He drew back, then slammed into her and fell forward onto his palms so he was looming over her prostrate body. “Let’s make something clear,” he said in a hard voice. “I’m not hurtin’ you to punish you, Bird. I’m hurtin’ you because you bloody well like it. Understand?”

She clenched her jaw, then sobbed again. “Shut up and fuck me!”

He flexed his hips, and Roman gasped and arched back to meet him, and soon their bodies were striking together with a hard and rapid _smack_ of his hips against her upraised ass. He dipped his head low and bit her shoulder, and she cried out his name, and Samson continued to nip her skin until the pulsing of pleasure in his own body was almost too much to bear. 

He gasped and pressed his forehead to her shoulder blade, then groaned and shuddered as his climax rippled through his abdomen and his limbs. For a long moment, he simply lay there with his sweaty forehead pressed to her skin as he gasped for air. 

In the stillness and silence of the aftermath, once he’d caught his breath, he spoke. “I’m sorry about your mother,” he said. 

He felt the slow expansion of her ribcage as she inhaled. “Don’t apologize,” she said. “You didn’t do anything.”

She sounded calmer than she had all night, and Samson was so surprised by this that he didn’t reply. In the ensuing silence, he eventually realized something odd: Roman wasn’t shoving him off the way she usually did. She was just lying there, crushed to the mattress beneath him, and there was something passive about her pose that suddenly made him feel bad. 

He released her and sat back on his heels. “Can I sleep here?” he asked. “I’ve got a pain in my hip from getting kicked earlier tonight.”

She frowned as she pushed herself upright. “Who fucking kicked you? I’ll stab them.”

He gave her a knowing look. “What, you give a rat’s ass now what happens to the likes of me?”

Her frown deepened into a scowl. “No, I… fuck you.”

Her voice held no real anger, however. Samson smirked. “A real knight in shining armour, you are. Can I stay, then, or…?”

Roman scowled at him for a second longer, then shrugged. “Stay if you want. I don’t care.” She pushed back the rumpled blankets and slid beneath them, and Samson crawled under the blankets as well.

He flopped onto his back with a weary sigh. Roman rolled onto her side facing away from him, but as she settled onto her side, her foot brushed against his calf. 

Samson waited for her to move her foot away with some snarky comment that he was taking up too much space on her bed, but she didn’t say anything, and she didn’t move her foot.

He lay there for a minute just staring at the velvet canopy overhead, but his attention was on the warmth of Roman’s foot touching his leg. Then he sighed internally. _Fuck it. What’s the worst that can happen?_ he thought. _She kicks me in the balls and kicks me out? I’ve had worse things happen._ Before he could think too much about the painful possibility that she might do just that, he rolled toward her, then shifted close and gathered her against his chest. 

Her whole body stiffened, but Samson wasn’t deterred; he pressed his chest against her spine and tucked his arm around her waist. 

She stayed stock-still and stiff for many long moments before speaking. “You smell.”

His heart squeezed. Was he imagining it, or did she suddenly sound a little like she had a head cold? “I know, all right?” he said quietly. “Some of us don’t have fancy Orlesian bathtubs.”

She sniffled very quietly, and his heart throbbed again. When she spoke again, her tone was snarky once more. “You should take a bath with me in the morning.”

A bath _with_ her? His belly did a funny flip. “Fine,” he grunted. He settled his chin against her shoulder. 

“And you should shave,” Roman said. She shifted her shoulder irritably. “Your fucking whiskers are scratchy. They’re going to give me a rash.”

He sighed loudly. “Quit breaking my balls for one second, will you?”

To his surprise, she fell silent. Gradually, very gradually, her body relaxed, and Samson felt his own body relaxing along with hers. 

He was half-asleep when he heard her voice again – a soft murmur, so soft that he wasn’t convinced it wasn’t a dream. 

“Thanks for the fuck,” she said. 

“Anytime, pretty bird,” he mumbled.

“I’m not your pretty bird,” she retorted.

He _tsk_ ed. “Go the fuck to sleep, Roman.”

She growled and shifted in his arms – shifted closer, so she was tucked tightly against his chest. Then she fell still again. Minutes later, her breathing was deep and calm, and he knew she was asleep. 

He closed his eyes and heaved a heavy sigh. _Bloody Bird,_ he thought. Then, with his pretty bird in his arms, Samson fell asleep as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am [Pikapeppa on Tumblr:](https://pikapeppa.tumblr.com/) your devoted fanfic writer. xo


	8. Care

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This takes place the morning after Leandra’s death, which was explored in Ch 7. 
> 
> A very slice-of-life chapter today — no plot, all “fluff” and smut. Some made-up Sammyboi backstory today, since there is woefully little canon information about his pre-Templar life. AND SOME SUPER INSANELY ADORABLE ART BY SCHOUTE. BASTARDS BEING SLIGHTLY DOMESTIC AND PRETENDING TO HATE IT. 😭❤❤

Roman was glaring at him.

This wasn’t unusual, really; scowling was her default expression. But it was a little unnerving to have her glaring at him while they were sitting naked in her bathtub.

He raised an eyebrow. “What’s the problem, Bird?”

She continued to stare at him in silence until the discomfort made his skin crawl. He frowned at her. “Roman,” he said loudly. 

“What?” she snapped.

“What’s the bloody problem?” he asked.

“Nothing,” she said. “There’s no problem.”

“You’re staring at me like there’s a problem.”

“I said there’s no fucking problem,” she said sharply.

He sighed. “If you say so.” He bent forward in the bath and scooped some water in his hands and splashed it over his head and neck, then lifted his head and smoothed the excess water from his hair.

“You’re making a mess,” she said.

He looked up. “Eh?”

She jerked her chin at his head. “You splashed water all over the floor.”

He made a little face. “Damn. I’ll wipe it up after.”

She folded her arms and said nothing more, so Samson decided to ignore her and continue washing up. He picked up her fancy glass bottle of shampoo and poured some into his palm, and he did his best to enjoy the vanilla-almond scent despite Roman’s unstinting scowl.

He lathered his hair thoroughly, being sure to wash the roots so she wouldn’t nag him. Then something made him pause — something in the bathtub. 

Something pressing between his legs.

He swallowed hard. “Bird, your foot is on my balls.”

“So?”

“So… maybe you should move it.” He shifted a little awkwardly; even the gentle pressure of her toes was starting to rile him up.

“There’s nowhere else to move it,” she said. “You’re taking up too much space.”

He slumped slightly. She was the one who’d told him to take a bath with her. “You want me to get out? Is that it?”

She curled her lip. “No. Whatever. Why, do you want to get out?”

“Not when it’s all nice and warm in ‘ere. But if you’re going to use my balls as a footrest…” He trailed off; her foot was sliding along the length of his hardening cock.

She scoffed. “What, no more complaints now?”

He exhaled shakily and widened his knees. “Just don’t kick me, all right? Ah…”

She stroked his cock slowly with her foot, then gently pressed her heel into his balls. He grunted and curled his hips toward her, and she suddenly moved her foot away.

She huffed and settled her feet on either side of his hips. “Don’t be gross. I’m not going to let you come in my bathwater. Rinse your fucking hair.”

He exhaled, then shot her baleful look. “You’re a mean bloody tease, you know that?” He dunked his head and rubbed his hair until the shampoo was mostly gone. When he lifted his head from the water and slicked the water from his hair, he purposely splashed the floor a little more.

Roman sneered at him, and he gave her a mocking little smile before picking up the soap. “You’re not going to wash up, then?”

“I’m not the one who needs the bath,” she said.

“Then why are you sittin’ there?” he asked. “Should I be putting on a dirty show for you?”

She huffed and looked away. “No.”

He smirked and rubbed the soap on his chest. “Come on now, you don’t need to look away. Nothing you haven’t seen before.”

“Fuck you,” she muttered.

 _Don’t need to ask me twice,_ he thought, but he kept that comment to himself; she looked about as brittle as the first layer of frost on a lake in winter, and if he goaded her any further, she might light a fire under his ass or something. Worse yet, she might tell him to get out of her bathtub and out of her house. 

But her mother had just been murdered yesterday, and Samson wasn’t sure that it was a good idea for her to be alone. Why he’d decided that _he_ should be the one to babysit the damned bird today, he wasn’t sure, but, well… here he was, so he supposed he’d make the best of it. 

He started rubbing the soap on his arms. Then Roman sighed loudly. “Use the fucking washcloth,” she scolded. “You’re just rubbing the soap on top of the dirt.” She picked up the washcloth that was hanging on the edge of the tub, then held out her hand impatiently.

Samson handed her the soap, and she briskly lathered the washcloth. “Turn around,” she said. 

He shot her a suspicious look, then gingerly turned around in the bathtub. A moment later, she was washing his back. 

She rubbed the soapy cloth in a circular motion from the back of his neck across his shoulders, then over his shoulder blades and back toward his spine, and Samson breathed slowly as she washed his skin. Her movements were brisk but gentle, thorough without being rough, and he wondered at how the movement of her hands almost seemed practiced. 

Her hands sank beneath the water to wash his lower back. Then she was scooping handfuls of water over his back and sluicing it away, again with those businesslike practiced movements as though it was something she’d done many times before, and Samson’s curiosity continued to grow, even as he enjoyed the unusual gentleness of Roman’s hands on his skin. 

He didn’t get it. He didn’t get _her_. She was clearly capable of being gentle; this wasn’t the only time she’d treated him with tenderness in the guise of complaining about how dirty he was. But if he ever remarked on her gentleness or made an awkward attempt to be gentle in return, she snarled and shied away from him like a feral cat. 

Less than a minute later, she was finished. “There,” she said. “That’s how you should be washing yourself. No wonder the fucking water is always brown by the time you’re done.”

He grunted. “I get it, all right? I’m filthy.”

“Not anymore. You’re welcome,” she said snarkily.

He huffed. Then, on impulse, he shifted backwards in the tub toward her. 

“Hey,” she exclaimed. “What — what the fuck are you doing?”

He didn’t answer. He kept sliding back in the tub until he was between her legs, then boldly leaned against her so his back was flush to her chest.

“Seriously, what the fuck do you think you’re doing?” she demanded.

“Having tea with the bloody Queen of Ferelden,” he retorted. “What’s it look like?”

“It looks like you’re fucking trapping me in my own tub,” she snapped.

He sighed and adjusted the back of his head against her bony collarbone. “Just relax, all right? The water’s warm and it’s not that dirty. Just relax.” 

She growled in his ear, but she made no more complaints. Samson closed his eyes and waited to see what she would do. 

For a long moment, she didn’t move. She just sat there stiff and unmoving in the tub behind him, and Samson eventually wondered if she’d just stay sitting there like a golem until he moved.

Eventually, though, he felt some of the tension leave her body. Her thighs softened behind his hips, and he could feel her shoulders and her spine relaxing into the curve of the tub, and some of his own tension started to leave him in response to the softening of her body. 

He breathed slowly, enjoying the soap-scented steam of the bath and the strange pleasantness of Roman’s body pressed against his own — not to mention the fact that she was _letting_ him stay pressed against her like this. Honestly, when he’d decided to lie back against her chest, he hadn’t really expected her to allow it. Now that he was lounging against her in such an intimate way, he realized something odd: he’d never actually done this before. This lounging-and-relaxing business, that is. There’d been a few girls here and there before he’d joined the Templars, but none who wanted him to stick around for… whatever this was. 

Not that Roman had asked him to stick around or anything like that. But she was also a strange case — an especially difficult case. Frankly, Roman Hawke was a bloody pain in his ass. She would never actually ask him to stay with her or to stick around. And unless she was demanding that he fuck her, he could never be entirely sure what she wanted from him. The most she would do is tell him she didn’t care what he did, and after knowing her for a few years now, he’d started to accept her I-don’t-cares as implicit permission to stay. 

Or, in a situation like right now, if she wasn’t pushing him away and telling him to leave, he’d take it as a sign that she wasn’t completely disgusted with his presence.

She suddenly curled her arm around his shoulders and grabbed his chin, and Samson tensed at her sudden grip. Then she roughly rubbed his chin. “You should shave,” she said. “Your stubble is too long to be stubble anymore.”

“What if I was trying to grow a beard for the winter?” he said.

She clicked her tongue. “It’s not winter for another four months, you dumbass.”

“It takes time to grow a beard, you know.”

She released his chin. “Are you really trying to grow a beard?”

He shrugged. “Eh, not really. Why? You think I’d look worse with a beard?”

“No,” she said. “I don’t know. It’s your face, do what you want.”

Her hand was resting on his chest now — just resting there casually and not doing anything. He wasn’t used to her hands on his body unless they were having sex. Having Roman’s hand just laying there on his chest… He couldn't decide if it felt nice or just plain strange. 

“I’ll shave,” he said. “Don’t want to hear you complaining about how I’m scratching you up when I’m going down on you.”

She _tsk_ ed. “Thanks a lot.”

“Anytime, Bird.” He closed his eyes again. Roman’s arm was still loosely curled around his shoulders, and it was almost like a hug.

A sudden jolt tugged at the inside of his ribs. He swallowed hard and didn’t speak, and for another long and oddly peaceful moment, they just sat together in the bathtub with his back pressed to her chest and her arm draped around him. 

“I’ll shave your stupid whiskers for you,” she said quietly. 

Her lips were close to his ear, and a little shiver traced down his spine at the nearness of her lips. A number of snarky replies darted across his mind, but he settled on an honest question instead.

“Why?” he said.

“Why what?” she asked.

“Why d’you want to shave my face for me?”

“I don’t — I didn’t say I _want_ to. I just said I _can_.” She tensed behind him as though to push herself up from the bath.

Samson grabbed her wrist so she couldn’t get out. “Wait.” 

“Let me go,” she snapped.

“Just wait, will you?” he insisted. “I want to ask you something.”

“What?” she said impatiently. 

“You’re good at this,” he said. “This washing business, the hair, the back. Why is that?”

She tried to pull her wrist from his hand, but he tightened his grip and doggedly pressed on. “You said it wasn’t from helping with your brother and sister. So what, then?”

“Let me go. Now,” she hissed, and she bit the edge of his ear.

He yelped in surprise and released her, then watched resentfully as she stepped out of the tub and grabbed a towel on her way out of the bathroom. Once she had disappeared into her bedroom, he settled against the back of the tub with a sigh. 

He shouldn’t have said anything. He should’ve known better than to push her. He took a deep breath and submerged himself completely in the tub, then slowly rose to the surface and pushed his hair out of his face. 

He opened his eyes, then recoiled slightly. Roman was standing there in her silk dressing gown, and she had an open barber’s razor in her hand. 

“Get out,” she said, and she nodded her head at the stool beside her. “Sit here.”

He exhaled slowly, then stood up and stepped out of the bath. “You’re not going to slit my throat, are you?”

“For fuck’s sake, no,” she said in exasperation. “I know what I’m doing.”

He pursed his lips but didn’t contradict her. He quickly rubbed a towel through his hair, then wrapped it around his waist and sat down on her stool.

She draped a smaller towel over his shoulder. A minute later, she started lathering his face with shaving cream.

He jolted, and she squeezed his shoulder. “Sit still,” she scolded.

“It’s hot,” he complained. “Why is the shaving cream hot?”

“It’s supposed to be hot,” she retorted. “Just relax.” 

Her tone was mocking. He scowled and closed his eyes, and Roman continued to blot his face with the hot shaving cream, and it was… all right, it was kind of nice once he got used to the feeling of it. But she could have warned him. 

He inhaled the faintly astringent scent of the shaving cream as she dabbed it over his upper lip. Then Roman picked up her barber’s razor. “Tilt your head,” she said.

He did as he was told. Her fingers rested delicately on his cheekbone, and she began carefully shaving away his whiskers with careful little strokes of the barber’s blade.

She shaved part of his cheek, then wiped the blade on the towel on his shoulder before continuing to shave his skin. “I did this for my dad,” she said quietly. 

He opened his eyes and glanced at her. She was looking at her hands, but her eyes flicked to his briefly before returning to her busy hands.

“He couldn’t do it himself?” Samson said.

“Not when he was sick, no.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Sick?”

“Yeah,” she said. “He died of… we don’t know what. Some kind of illness that just made him waste away. He couldn’t breathe by the end.”

“That’s…” He trailed off awkwardly, then tried again. “Sounds rough, Bird. Sorry to hear it.”

“Don’t be,” she said. “You didn’t do anything.”

Her tone was flat and brusque. They were both silent for a moment. Then, against his better judgment, Samson spoke again. “Did you… wash his hair too?”

“Yes,” she said.

 _And his back?_ Samson wondered, but his gut was squirming with discomfort now – discomfort for _her_ sake. He knew Malcolm Hawke had died when Roman was about twenty, and now to imagine a younger Roman giving her own sickly father a bath and a shave…

He shifted uncomfortably on the stool. He wasn’t sure how to feel about her shaving him now. 

She _tsk_ ed and squeezed his shoulder. “Sit fucking still, Samson. I mean it.” 

“You don’t have to do this for me, you know,” he said. “I can do it myself.”

“I said to sit still,” she snapped. “Just let me do it.”

He pursed his lips, but he did as she bade him and sat there while her razor moved delicately across his face. Her fingers were uncharacteristically gentle, just as they were when she washed his hair or his back, but now he understood where her gentleness came from. 

He decided to risk asking her another question, since she was being so strangely forthcoming. “Why didn’t your mum shave him?”

She let out a humourless little laugh. “She couldn’t. Too overwhelmed.”

“Your mum seemed to get overwhelmed a lot,” Samson remarked.

She huffed. Then a flicker of emotion crossed her face — a complex mixture of anger and guilt and distress that made his gut twist. 

Her mother had just died yesterday. He was being an asshole. He sighed. “Roman, I — Maker’s balls. I didn’t mean—”

“It’s fine,” she interrupted. “Stop apologizing.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I wasn’t—”

“I said stop apologizing,” she barked. “You didn’t fucking do anything wrong.”

“All right, all right,” he said hastily, and for a while, he said nothing more. Roman continued to shave his face, and by the time she was done, there was a melancholy sort of softness to her frown that made his chest hurt. 

She dampened another towel with hot water and carefully wiped the residual shaving cream from his face, then eyed him in silence. He rubbed his face — damn, it really did feel extra smooth — then lifted one eyebrow. “So? Do I look like a brand-new man?”

“Yeah, actually,” she said. Then she turned away. “Get dressed and come downstairs,” she said, and she left him alone in the bathroom.

He sat there for a moment, surprised and a little dismayed that she hadn’t taken the opportunity to take a dig at him. She really must be feeling fucked up. 

He quickly threw on some of Carver’s clothes that she’d left on the bed for him, then padded downstairs. She was in the kitchen, and she was pouring rum into two shot glasses. 

He huffed in amusement and leaned his elbow on the kitchen island. “It’s not even close to noon yet.” 

“I don’t give a shit,” she said. She pushed one shot glass toward him, then nodded her head at the spread of food on the kitchen island. “Eat whatever you want.”

He eyed the food. There was a tureen of what smelled like lamb stew, a platter of fragrant cranberry-studded scones, and a plate of fat red grapes and sliced Ferelden cheese. 

He smirked. “You made all this for me? That’s nice.”

She scoffed. “Fuck off. Orana and Bodahn did it.” She downed her shot of rum.

“You expectin’ company?” he said. He popped a grape in his mouth.

“Fuck no,” she said. “I’m not seeing anyone today.”

He paused in his chewing. “You’re not?” he said in surprise. There was no way her crew weren’t going to show up at some point today. Was she really not going to see them? 

She wrinkled her nose and poured a second shot. “No way. I don’t need company. I’ve got this bottle of rum.” 

He watched her warily. The bottle of rum in her hand was more than half-full, and she wasn’t looking at him. Was she planning to drink it all herself?

He remembered how spectacularly drunk she’d been last night. _Probably,_ he thought. He quickly drained his shot glass and held it out to her. “Here’s to hoping you can share, then.”

She looked at him, and something flashed across her face — a look that tugged at his heart, but it was gone before he could fully register it. Then she shrugged and poured some more rum into his shot glass. “Sure. Whatever. Stay and eat if you want.” She drank her second shot and poured herself a third.

He nodded and drank his second shot, and Roman immediately poured him another, but instead of drinking it, he picked up a scone and offered it to her.

She raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“Eat it,” he said. “You’ll last the day better if you have something in your belly.”

She scoffed. “You’re giving _me_ lessons in drinking?”

“Think of it as passing on the family wisdom,” he said wryly.

She gave him a more serious look. “Your parents were drunks?”

“My dad,” he said. “Or my mum certainly thought so.” He shrugged and took a small bite of the scone. “He was probably no better or worse than your uncle, for what it’s worth.”

She _harrumph_ ed. “That’s not saying much.”

“Yeah,” he agreed. He took another bite of the fresh scone, then held it out to her.

She gingerly took it from his fingers, then shot him a guarded glance. “Your parents are… they, uh. They died a long time ago, right?”

“That’s right,” he said.

She nodded and picked some crumbs from the scone. “How did they… what happened to them?”

Samson sighed and leaned both elbows on the counter. “My dad was done in during a work accident. He did odd jobs here and there, general labour stuff — sometimes building houses, sometimes working down at the docks. The job that killed ‘im was a construction job, I heard.” He shrugged and selected a piece of cheese. “My mum was right pissed. She thought he was drunk at the time.”

“Was he?” Roman said quietly.

“No idea,” Samson said. “Probably.”

“Didn’t get along with your dad, huh?” she said, and she drank her third shot.

“I barely knew ‘im, really,” Samson said. “He didn’t spend much time at home.”

“And your mom?” she asked.

He shot a pointed look at the scone in her hand. She rolled her eyes and took a bite, and Samson picked up his shot glass. “I knew my mum well,” he said. “Too well, really.” 

“No, I meant did she get along with your dad,” Roman said. “Doesn’t sound like it.”

He smirked. “You got that already, eh? No, they weren’t on great terms.” He downed his third shot. Frankly, his mother had hated his father. His only memories of his parents together were memories of fights, whether those fights were furiously whispered arguments or full-out shouting matches. Samson’s father drank too much, he was never home, he was drunk whenever he _was_ home, he drank away half of his weekly pay… His mother’s list of complaints was a never-ending diatribe that somehow only worsened after his father died. 

Roman poured a fourth shot for them both. “What happened to her?”

“She got sick,” Samson said. He shot her a knowing look. “Doesn’t sound too different from what happened to your dad, actually. She got a cough that just kept getting worse. Then one day, she just stopped breathing.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Fuck. That’s… it’s shitty, isn’t it? Watching that happen and not being able to fucking fix it?” 

“Honestly, I wouldn’t know,” he said. “I wasn’t there.”

Her eyebrows jumped up. “You — where were you?”

“I was here in Kirkwall,” he said. “I couldn’t make it back to Starkhaven.” 

“Why…?” She trailed off, and her face twisted with anger. “Oh fuck. Had the Templars already kicked you out by then?”

He nodded and sipped his shot. “I hadn’t the coin to go back. Haven’t been able to say my farewells or nothing.”

She exhaled. “Fuck. That’s… that’s fucking awful. Fucking Templar Order.”

He shrugged. In truth, even years after his mother’s death, he still fluctuated between terrible guilt and even more terrible relief for not being able to attend his mother’s funeral. 

He finished his shot and changed the subject. “Why couldn’t you do anything about your dad?”

She frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I mean magic healing,” he said. “You couldn’t do that for your dad?”

Her frown deepened into a scowl. “ _I_ can’t, no. Advanced magic healing involves getting help from spirits, which is a stupid fucking idea when you do blood magic.”

“Oh,” he said in surprise. “It… that healing stuff uses spirits, eh? I never really thought about it.”

“I have,” she said. “A lot.” She downed her shot and poured another.

“You have?” he said.

She gulped down her fifth shot, then looked at him. “I started doing blood magic when I was seventeen or eighteen. My father taught me about it, actually.”

He stared at her. “Your dad taught you blood magic?”

“No, he taught me _about_ it,” she said impatiently. “He told me to avoid it — of course he did, he was brought up in a fucking Circle. But he taught me the basic principles so I’d know how it works. And one of the principles is that if you do blood magic, you should avoid healing magic because mixing the two can make you more prone to possession, since advanced healing magic invokes spirits.”

He gazed at her in genuine surprise. “I didn’t… I didn’t think of that.”

“What, they didn’t talk about that in Templar training?” she said snidely.

He shook his head, and she snorted. “I’m not surprised. Something the Chantry doesn't know about? Of course they teach you to be scared instead of fucking learning about it.”

He held up a hand. “Hang on, I need another shot.”

She looked at him. “You need one? Why?”

“If we’re going to talk politics?” he said dryly. “You bet I need another bloody shot.”

She smirked, and his heart did a little hop at the rare sight of a near-smile on her face. She must be getting drunk. 

“Fuck politics, then,” she announced. “You were saying something about your mom.” She poured him a fifth shot, spilling some rum on the counter in the process. 

_Definitely getting drunk,_ he thought in amusement. If his gently spinning head was anything to go by, though, she wasn’t the only one. 

“Maybe I’d rather talk about the politics,” he said.

“Too bad,” she said. “Tell me about your mother.” She took a big bite of scone.

“My mother…” He sighed and picked up his overfull shot glass. “She wasn’t fond of me.”

Roman swallowed her bite of scone. “Not fond of you? Why not?” She bit into the scone again.

He shrugged. “She thought I was my dad all over again. A useless layabout.”

Roman paused, then swallowed her food and frowned at him. “She thought that?”

“Must have done,” he said casually. “She called me that often enough.”

“But you’re not a layabout,” Roman said.

He gave her a humourless little smile. “I’m a beggar, Bird. Ask anyone and they’d say I’m the perfect example of a layabout.”

“They’d be wrong,” she said in a hard tone. “You’re not fucking layabout. You’re always thinking about shit even when you look like you’re just sitting around. Listening to people, picking up their secrets to sell for later. That’s work. That _is_ your work.”

He looked at her, stunned by her assessment. She wasn’t wrong, that _was_ what he was always doing, but she considered that to be work?

A little unnerved by her generous impression of him, he shrugged and lifted his shot glass to his lips. “Maybe I was a lazy layabout when I was young. You don’t know.”

“I doubt it,” she said. “You joined the Templars when you were, what? Eighteen?”

He swallowed the rum and lowered his empty shot glass. “Yeah.”

“That doesn’t sound lazy to me.”

He toyed with his shot glass and didn’t reply. Again, she wasn’t entirely wrong; he and his mother desperately needed the money, and picking up the jobs that his dead father had left behind hadn’t been enough, so Samson had joined the Templars for the steady salary. But there was another more selfish reason that he’d joined the Templars, too. 

He briefly considered not telling that reason to Roman. She was the only person who thought he had any value, and if he told her how selfish he was, maybe she’d start thinking he was a piece of shit like everyone else did. 

But his drunken tongue was already wagging. “I didn’t exactly join the Templars because of my work ethic,” he said. “I joined them to get away from my mum.” 

Roman shrugged. “Mm. That makes sense.”

He raised his eyebrows, surprised by her casual response. “You think so?”

She gave him a knowing look. “You’re not the only one with a disapproving mother. Or whose parents weren’t on the greatest terms.”

He stared at her. In a single breath, she’d just told him more personal information he’d ever heard from her mouth.

She’d never said outright that Leandra didn’t approve of her. And she’d never said anything about her parents’ relationship before. Samson had always assumed her parents had a good marriage since her mum was always whining about Malcolm’s death.

But how could Roman’s mum not approve of her? Roman had gone to the deep roads and brought back a fortune. She’d reinstated the Amell name and bought back this bloody mansion, all for her mother’s sake. What was there for Leandra to disapprove of?

At a total loss for words, he grimaced. “Well… damn.”

“Yeah,” she said. She poured them both another shot, then lifted her shot glass. “To dead mothers.”

A snort of laughter escaped him. She was so fucking vulgar sometimes. He lifted his shot glass as well. “To dead mothers, all right.”

They downed their shots. Then Samson chuckled and shook his head.

She blinked at him blearily. “What?”

“Ah, just…” He chuckled again. “Having a drink in their memory. Seems like it’s the last thing they’d want.”

She raised her eyebrows, then leaned back against the kitchen island beside him. “Shit. You’re right. My mother was always fucking nagging me about going to the Hanged Man.”

“Mine was always nagging my dad about the booze, too,” he said.

Roman looked up at him, and his heart did a little flip: her plump lips were curved in a small smile. “The fucking irony, huh?” she said. “Drinking in their honour?”

“Er, yeah,” he said blankly. To be honest, he wasn’t really thinking about his mother anymore. He was too preoccupied with the unprecedented sight of Roman’s smile. 

She was smiling. Roman was smiling, and her arm was pressed against his, and the front of her robe was gaping a little bit so he could see that she wasn’t wearing a bra.

She snorted a little laugh, and Samson’s heart stopped. Had – had she just laughed? 

She shook her head and folded her arms. “We’re honouring their memory by doing the thing they hate. That’s… that’s fucking funny.” She snorted again, then started laughing in earnest, and Samson gaped at her stupidly. 

Roman Hawke was laughing. Not a little huff or a tiny smirk, but a real belly laugh, and – Maker’s balls, he couldn’t think. She was laughing and she was pressed against his side, and her robe was gaping wide enough that he could see the edge of her nipple, and his head was spinning with rum and disbelief and a sudden burn of lust, lust that only climbed higher as she suddenly reached out and curled her fingers into his shirt–

And then he was kissing her. Or she was kissing him. Or – fuck, he didn’t know who had kissed whom, but she was sucking on his tongue and he could taste the sharp sugary flavour of rum in her mouth.

Without breaking their kiss, he abruptly pinned her back against the kitchen island, then cupped her face in his palms and kissed her hard. She twisted her hands in his shirt, and he nipped her lips and stroked her tongue ruthlessly with his own, and with every excited beat of his heart, he realized something unbelievably odd: she was _allowing_ the kiss.

Roman was letting him kiss her. Before now, she’d always bitten him (or tried to) whenever he kissed her. But now, at this moment of drunken desire, it seemed that her guard was down.

He groaned and pressed his hips to hers, riled beyond reason by the rare treat of her unabridged kiss. He devoured her lips and twisted his tongue with hers and savoured the rum-soaked taste of her breath, and meanwhile his fingers were tugging at the loose belt of her dressing gown and pulling it open and sliding over the angular planes of her ribs— 

He palmed her bare little breast, and she broke their kiss with a convulsive gasp. “Fuck,” she whimpered.

“Do you want to?” he breathed, and he kissed her again. 

Her muffled moan filled his mouth. He twisted her nipple until she was writhing, then eagerly pushed his hand into her smalls. 

She gasped into his mouth, and he groaned with longing; she was already wet, her slick warmth coating his fingers as he ran them clumsily between her legs. 

He pinned her against the counter and buried his face against her neck while he stroked her pussy. She was already bucking against his hand, gasping through her parted lips as though his clumsy drunken touch was actually pleasing her, and despite his alcohol-muddled mind, he couldn’t help but feel a little proud.

Feeling cocky now, he kissed her again and slid one finger inside of her at the same time. She cried out into his mouth and arched into his touch, then bit his tongue.

He grunted in pain, then pulled away from her kiss and grabbed her throat with his free hand. “Don’t bloody bite me,” he gasped. “Don’t – just let me…” He trailed off distractedly; her eyes were unfocused and feverish, and she was grinding hard against his hand. 

That self-satisfied feeling of lust fanned out through his body. He squeezed her throat gently and curled his finger inside of her. “This is nice for you, is it?” he growled.

She gasped and nodded. Samson delved his finger inside of her for a moment longer, then pulled his finger free and circled it around her clit instead. “If I was licking you right now, it would feel extra nice since my face is all smooth,” he murmured in her ear. “No scratching or anything.”

She gasped and dug her nails into his chest through his shirt, and the faint hint of pain pushed his lust even higher. He petted her clit and nipped her neck, then pressed his lips to her ear again. “You’re going to come all over my hand, Bird,” he crooned. “And when you come, I’ll fuck you good and hard.”

“Why won’t you go down on me?” she demanded.

“I think I’m too drunk,” he admitted. “I can’t do a proper job of it.”

She scoffed. “Coward.”

He shot her an affronted look, then turned her head to the side and bit the side of her neck. She cried out and bucked against his hand, and he bit her once more before pressing his lips to her ear again. 

“I’ll show you who’s a bloody coward later,” he hissed. “Now come on my fingers.”

“Don’t — ah — don’t tell me — what to — f-fuck, _ah!_ ” Her face twisted with pleasure, and then she was shuddering with rapture, her fingers gripping his shirt and her eyelids fluttering in the throes of her pleasure, and Samson vindictively enjoyed the sight of her climaxing on his hand exactly as he’d told her to do. 

Without releasing her throat, he leaned in and kissed her again. When she parted her lips to bite him, he bit her lower lip instead.

She yelped in pain, then pushed his hand away from her throat and stared at him, and he smiled mockingly at her. “Hurts, doesn’t it?” he said.

She stared at him without speaking, and Samson watched delightedly as her expression became heated and intense. She suddenly reached down and rubbed her hand over his pulsing groin. 

He gasped, and she started plucking at the laces of his trousers. “Fuck me,” she demanded. “Come on, fuck me now.” 

“Where?” he panted. Frankly, he’d fuck her right here on the kitchen floor if she wanted, but somewhere slightly more comfortable would probably be… well, more comfortable. 

She was clearly of the same mind. “Anywhere,” she blurted. “Anywhere, I don’t… there, the table.”

He blearily followed her gaze. There was a round table for four at the back of the kitchen, the sort of table that kitchen servants would sit at while eating their meals. 

He looked at her. “You sure–”

She shoved her hand into his trousers and wrapped her fist around his cock. “Fuck me on the table,” she ordered. 

_Fuck,_ her hand was so warm and tight around his cock. “All right,” he blurted. “All right, all right.” 

She released him and strode over to the table, then sat on the table and spread her legs. “Come on, get over here,” she said. 

For a split second, he just stared at her. Her robe was splayed open, showing off the rosy peaks of her nipples, and her smallclothes were soaked with her own desire. 

_Damn,_ he thought stupidly. A second later, he was standing in front of her and pulling out his cock while shoving her legs wider with his other hand. 

He pumped his fist along his length. “Pull your smalls to the side,” he grunted. 

She reached for his cock. “Don’t tell me what to–” 

He grabbed her wrist. “Bird, just bloody do what I ask for once,” he said in exasperation. He shoved her hand down between her own legs. “Pull them to the side, come on.” 

She finally did as he’d asked, hooking her fingers into the fabric between her legs and pulling it aside, and Samson stared greedily at her slickness, dizzy with booze and desire and his own good fortune. 

He braced one hand on the table and thrust into her, and they both gasped at the desperately-needed joining of their bodies. Samson grabbed her hip and tilted her closer to the edge of the table, then thrust into her again and dipped his head low to take her nipple in his mouth, and then he was fucking her fast and suckling her nipple at the same time.

She bucked her hips to meet him. “Harder,” she gasped. 

He wasn’t sure what she meant. Fuck her harder, or suck her nipple harder? He supposed he had better do both just to be safe. 

He dug his fingers into her ass and bit her nipple and slammed into her, and she cried out and arched her spine toward him. Spurred on by her obvious pleasure, he sucked her nipple hard, then released her breast and sank his teeth into the juncture of her shoulder and her neck, and all the while he was slamming into her in a hard and driving rhythm, driving his own insistent pleasure higher with every frenzied thrust. 

He dragged his tongue along her neck and bit her throat, and she whimpered. “F-fuck,” she gasped. “I — I kind of miss your scratchy whiskers.”

He burst out a rasping little laugh. “You’re such a contrary bitch.” 

“Shut up,” she panted. “Bite me again.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” he said mockingly, and he slammed himself in deep again. 

She cried out, then released the crotch of her smalls and clawed at his shoulder, sending a delicious streak of pain across his skin. “Come on, come on, I want you to bite me!”

He stopped thrusting and reached down to pull the crotch of her smalls out of the way. “For Maker’s bloody sake,” he complained, and he thrust into her again before biting her breast. 

She sobbed and slid her fingers into his hair, but to his surprise, she didn’t pull or scratch his scalp. She was still bucking her hips like a wanton little wildcat, but her fingers were oddly gentle in his hair and on his neck, curving around the back of his neck and gripping him without digging in, and for some reason, the gentleness of her hand was making his heart pound. 

He dragged in a breath, then cradled her neck firmly in his free hand and pressed his forehead to hers as he fucked her. Her lips were an inch from his and he could feel the rum-scented heat of her breath across his lips, but he didn’t try to kiss her; he just fucked her in a hard driving rhythm with his forehead pressed to hers and her slender kiss-bruised neck cradled in his palm.

“I’m going to come soon, Bird,” he grunted.

“I know,” she gasped. 

He stroked her jawline with his thumb. “I’m — I’m going to fill you with my come so it soaks into your smalls.” 

She nodded eagerly, and her lips brushed against his. “I know, I know, just do it,” she moaned.

He breathed hard, dizzy and breathless from the nearness of her mouth. His orgasm felt like it was ready to burst from his skin, and her mouth was so close to his, barely a hairsbreadth away, what if — what if he, while he was coming, what if he – would she bite him if he kissed her? But fuck, he really wanted to… 

His climax suddenly burst. Reckless and overcome with pleasure, Samson kissed her while he came. He thrust into her and hungrily stroked her tongue with his, and — oh Maker, Maker’s balls, Roman was licking his tongue and kissing him back. 

For the second time today, possibly the second time ever, she was actually _allowing_ him to kiss her, and her fingers were running through his hair in a smooth caress, and his heart was pounding so hard that it felt like it was trying to escape his rib cage altogether. 

He petted the back of her neck and slanted his mouth firmly over hers. Then Roman gripped his hair and pulled him away. 

He stared breathlessly at her flushed and frowning face. His cock was still pulsing with the tail-end of his rapture, and his entire body felt like it was tingling and floating, and… Maker’s fucking balls, he’d never felt this way before. He felt stunned but euphoric, as though he’d been struck in the head but in a good way, even though that made no bloody sense.

 _Must be drunker than I thought,_ he told himself. He released her neck, then slowly pulled out of her and tucked his cock back into his trousers. “Where’s… um, your household staff. Bodahn and the others. Are they…?” He trailed off awkwardly. Damn, he should have thought of this before he’d shoved his hand into her smallclothes. 

Roman adjusted her smalls and slid off of the table. “They’re here somewhere.”

“Oh,” he said. He scratched the back of his head and guiltily eyed the table. “Should we, er…”

“Yeah,” she said. “They already think I’m an asshole, though, so this doesn’t change anything.” She retied her robe, then pushed past him to get a wash rag and some soap from the kitchen sink. She wet the rag in hot water and lathered it up, then stumbled back over to the table and started wiping it down. 

Samson watched her for a moment before speaking. “You’re not an asshole, Bird. Not always.”

She shot him a disparaging look. “Yes I am,” she said. She turned back to the table and continued to clean it, and as he watched her scrubbing the table as though she was doing penance, he was struck by a weird urge to walk up behind her and wrap her in his arms. 

_Don’t be stupid,_ he thought. She would shove him away if he tried. 

He leaned against the kitchen counter and folded his arms. When Roman finished washing the table, she rinsed the table with hot water and wiped it dry, then wandered over to him.

She leaned against the opposite counter and folded her arms too. “Well? Are you leaving now?”

His belly dropped with disappointment. “Do you want me to leave?” he said.

She shrugged and brushed a stray piece of lint off of her sleeve. “I don’t care. Do what you want.”

He studied her carefully, then lifted his chin. “What if I said I’m staying here tonight?”

She shrugged. “Fine. Whatever.”

“And if I wanted to take a piss in your fancy bathtub?” he taunted.

She wrinkled her nose. “Don’t be fucking disgusting.”

He huffed in amusement. “How about…” He nibbled the inside of his cheek, then took a chance. “What if I said I was staying here for the rest of the week so I can sleep in your fancy bed?”

She eyed him for a second, then looked away. “Stay if you want. I don’t care.”

 _I don’t care._ She was always saying this, and it was so fucking frustrating.

He reached out and tugged her arm, and she stumbled toward him. “Hey, don’t pull,” she complained. 

He ignored her complaint and dragged her against his chest. “What if I said I’m going to sleep here from now on so I can have my way with you whenever I get the urge?”

She stubbornly folded her arms, but Samson noted that she didn’t try to pull away — and that her cheeks were turning pink. “Good luck with that, you cocky asshole,” she retorted.

“Roman,” he said seriously. “Do you want me to stay?”

Her cheeks were red now, and she was positively glowering at him. “It’s — whatever. Stay if you want. I told you, I don’t care what you do.”

He sighed loudly. “You’re a bloody pain in the arse,” he complained, and he kissed her. 

She nipped his lip, then pushed him away. “I’m going back upstairs,” she said. “Eat what you want. Or bring something upstairs with you, whatever.” She strode toward the kitchen door without looking at him, and he watched with a mixture of fondness and frustration as she walked away. 

Once she was gone, he leaned his elbows on the kitchen island and popped a piece of cheese in his mouth. _Bloody Bird,_ he thought. She was like a tornado, pulling him in a hundred different directions at once with her anger and her defensiveness and her constant cursing. But then there were these moments of peace and stillness with her — moments where she was just a little bit soft, when her hands were tender and her voice was calm. Those moments when they were sitting together in silence, or having a drink and a chat, or lying in her bed in the aftermath of their torrid sex: those moments were precious, more precious than any moment he’d ever had with any other person in his life, and in those fragile moments, Samson _knew_ , deep down, what this really was.

He knew what this was, even though he’d never had it before or felt it in this way for anyone else. He knew what this was, and at some level, beneath Roman’s sneering words and her _whatevers_ and her _I-don’t-cares_ , he was sure that she knew what it was as well.

He’d be damned if he would be the one to say it, though. He’d made a damned fool of himself enough times in his life, thanks very much.

He slowly ate another piece of cheese. When he was finished, he went to the cupboard and took out a large plate, then piled the plate with scones and cheese and fruit.

“She’d better eat this,” he muttered to himself. With that threatening thought, Samson left the kitchen and went to join Roman in her bedroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your divine artist and captain of the SS Romanson is [Schoute,](https://schoute.tumblr.com/) and I am [Pikapeppa,](https://pikapeppa.tumblr.com/) her devoted first mate! xo


	9. Worry

###  ROMAN 

The Arishok’s charred body dropped to the floor with a shuddering crash. A second later, Roman hit the ground on her hands and knees.

 _Get up,_ she told herself viciously. _Come on, get the fuck up. Don’t let them see you looking weak._ She dragged a deep breath into her lungs, ignoring the smell of blood and burning flesh as she did, then pushed herself shakily to her feet.

A second later, Anders and Varric were beside her. Anders grasped her arm. “Hawke—” 

She pulled her arm away. “Don’t touch me.”

He held up his hands, but his expression was stern. “You’re nearly overextended. I can see it. You need—”

“Not here,” she hissed. The nobles in the great hall were whispering and staring, and Roman couldn’t tell whether they’d looked more scared when the Arishok had been holding them hostage, or right now as they gaped at the blood trickling down her arm — her own blood, which she’d used in a desperate but powerful move to stop the fucking Arishok from running her down. 

She clumsily untied the red scarf from around her wrist to mop up the blood. She hadn’t wanted to use blood magic in front of all these people. But somehow, like fucking _always_ , she and her unfortunate group of misfits seemed to be the only people who’d made it all the way into the Viscount’s Keep to stop the Arishok, and the fucking Arishok was determined to take Isabela, and then somehow the only way to stop the Arishok from killing more people was for Roman to agree to duel him by herself. 

Isabela came over to her. “So, um—” 

Roman cut her off. “You fucked me over, you know that?”

“I know, I know,” Isabela said quickly. “But listen—”

Roman cut her off. “Don’t fucking talk to me tonight. I’ve had enough.” She tried to push past Isabela, but almost tripped over her own feet.

Varric stepped toward her. “Uh, Hawke…” 

“I’m fine,” she insisted. “I just want to go home.” She braced her weight on her staff — _like a weak old man,_ she thought angrily — and headed for the doors as quickly as her aching body would allow, but before she could reach the exit, Merrill slipped inside. 

“Meredith is coming!” she whispered. “Meredith and some Templars, and they don’t look very happy.”

_Fuck,_ Roman thought with a fresh rush of frustration. Beside her, Anders rolled his eyes. “Great,” he drawled. “Just what every terrible situation needs. A bunch of bloody Templars.”

Varric tapped Roman’s elbow. “Hey,” he said urgently, “when they get here, let me do the talking. I’ll smooth it over.” 

Isabela wrinkled her nose. “What’s there to smooth over? Hawke killed this big horny bastard.’” She shot a distasteful look at the dead Arishok.

Fenris was the one to reply. “She used blood magic in front of Kirkwall’s elite.”

Roman glared at him. “Fenris, for once in our fucking lives, can you piss off about the blood magic?”

He narrowed his eyes, but his tone was calm. “I am simply stating a fact. One that you are aware of yourself. This doesn’t look good, Hawke.”

“What the fuck else was I supposed to do?” Roman demanded. “Let him murder my ass? That was _not_ going to happen, I promise you.”

“That’s the spirit,” Varric said cheerfully. “Listen, I’ll take care of this, okay? Everyone just calm down and look heroic.”

Isabela snorted in amusement. “I have no idea what that looks like.”

Fenris raised an eyebrow. “After your sudden abscondment yesterday, that’s not surprising.”

She shot him an offended look. “Ouch. Someone stepped on some broken glass tonight.”

“You said it yourself, not me,” Fenris replied.

“Both of you shut up,” Anders hissed. “Here she comes.”

Sure enough, Meredith strode into the room with a group of bloodied Templars at her back, including Carver. “Is it over?” she demanded. 

Roman couldn’t help herself. “Yes, no thanks to you,” she said loudly. 

Isabela snorted softly, and Meredith’s expression became even stonier than usual. Varric sighed quietly before addressing her. “Knight-Captain,” he said with a casual salute. “You’ll be happy to hear that Hawke killed the Arishok.”

“Hawke?” Meredith said. Her sharp blue eyes darted to dead Arishok’s body then to Hawke’s staff, and her eyes narrowed. “A — you are an apostate?”

Roman opened her mouth to make a barbed comment, but Varric stepped on her foot. “Yep,” he said to Meredith. “An apostate took down the Arishok all by herself. She saved the city.” He looked around at the assembled nobles. “You all saw it, right? It was incredible.”

The nobles murmured and looked at each other, and one of them stepped forward. “That’s right,” he said. “Hawke killed the Arishok with magic. I saw her do it.”

The murmuring grew louder, murmurs of agreement now, and Roman watched with disgust as the nobles’ expressions became approving as they looked at her. The Arishok was a murderous bastard, but he’d been right about one thing; nobles really were a bunch of brainless pigs. 

Varric was still talking, telling Meredith a colourful recounting of the Arishok duel — loudly enough that all the nobles could hear. Beside Roman, Merrill sighed with relief. “Isn’t Varric clever?” she whispered. “Everyone looks so happy now.” 

Fenris scoffed quietly. “Most nobles are just wealthy fools who are easily entertained.”

Roman grunted. “We finally agree on something.”

“It was bound to happen eventually,” Isabela said drolly.

“Not necessarily,” Anders muttered with a resentful look at Fenris.

Anders, Fenris and Isabela fell into a quiet semi-bickering conversation while Merrill sidled over to Varric to listen, and Roman just stood there with her whole body aching, waiting dully for the moment when Varric deemed it safe for her to leave. Honestly, if she had it her way, she’d be halfway home by now.

“Roman,” Carver said quietly. 

She looked up. Carver was standing beside her with a deep frown. “Are you okay?”

“Like you give a shit,” she retorted. She waited for him to make the usual angry retort, but to Roman’s surprise, it didn’t come.

He pursed his lips, then spoke in a lower voice. “You don’t look well. Are you sure you’re—”

“I’m fucking fine, okay? I’m fine,” she snapped. “Or I’ll _be_ fine as soon as your fucking commander lets me leave this hall. It stinks like sweat and burnt meat in here.” 

Her voice was louder than she’d intended, and Meredith looked over at her. “So,” she said. “Master Tethras says you saved the city from the Qun.”

“She sure did,” Varric said. “She’s a real champion.”

Some of the nobles started clapping, and within a few seconds, the whole hall of them were applauding and calling her the Champion of Kirkwall. 

Roman ignored them and returned Meredith’s hard stare. Meredith was clearly trying to find some reason to detain her, but as they stood there staring at each other, Roman started to realize just how powerful Varric’s words had been. With a hall full of nobles cheering for her and a dead qunari chieftain on the floor, Meredith couldn’t arrest her without inciting a huge protest. 

She sauntered up to Meredith as casually as she could despite her trembling legs. When she was a mere foot away from Meredith, she paused and lifted her chin.

“You’re in my fucking way,” she said, very quietly. 

Meredith’s eyes were as cold as marble. Without breaking from Roman’s gaze, the Knight-Captain shifted slightly to the side. 

Roman smirked, then did a sarcastic half-bow to her before leaving the great hall. She breathed shallowly as she made her way to the exit, ignoring the icy heat in her muscles and the pounding of her head, gritting her teeth to keep the nausea at bay. 

She vaguely heard the others following her out of the hall to the exit, but she didn’t look at them and she didn’t speak. She pushed open the doors to the keep— 

Or at least, she tried to. But she couldn’t muster the strength to push open the solid wooden doors. 

“Fucking fuck,” she muttered, and she shoved her shoulder against the door, to no avail.

“I’ve got it,” Anders said from behind her.

She clenched her jaw and tried again to open the door herself, but Anders reached over her shoulder anyway to push it open. She stepped out into the cool nighttime air and took a breath, then promptly vomited all over the front step of the Viscount’s Keep.

“Oh shit,” Isabela lamented.

“Oh dear,” Merrill said tensely. 

Fenris grunted. “You’re nearly overextended.”

Roman shakily wiped her mouth and straightened up, ready to snap at him. Then she swayed to the side as her legs tried to give out. “Fuck—”

Varric caught her by the arm. “Yikes. Okay, come on, Hawke. You need to get home.”

She pulled her arm away from him. “Where the fuck else d’you think I’d be going?” she demanded. She made her way down the steps using her staff for a support, no longer caring how weak she looked as long as she could make it home without any of their fucking _help_. 

A minute later, Anders caught up to her. “I’m coming with you,” he said. “And don’t try telling me to piss off; I know you can take care of yourself, but I just need to be there in case your symptoms get worse before you’re home.”

“I can take care of myself,” she hissed. “I don’t need any fucking help!”

“Call it a doctor’s conscience, then,” Anders said calmly. “Just let me do my job, all right? And let me patch up that wound on your arm while I’m at it.”

She gave him a sour look but allowed him to heal her sliced arm, and they walked in silence for a while. But as the silence stretched between them, she started to wonder where the others had gone. Fenris and Merrill had probably gone home, but where had Varric and Isabela gone? 

At the thought of Isabela, Roman’s head felt like it was swelling with rage. _Fucking Isabela,_ she thought. She still couldn’t believe Isabela had just taken that Tome of Koslun thing and run. Sure, she’d come back, but that didn’t change the fact that she’d run off in the first place, leaving Roman high and dry. 

She fumed about Isabela the rest of the way home — a helpful rage, really, since it distracted Roman from the fact that her whole body felt like it was aching and burning and freezing at the same time. By the time she and Anders were within sight of her mansion, she was doing everything in her power to focus on her anger and _not_ on the fact that her feet were dragging as she walked. 

Anders sighed. “Hawke, just let me carry you the rest of the way. It’s not that far—”

“No,” she snapped. “I said fucking no. I don’t need your help.” Then she tripped over her staff. 

She dropped her staff and caught herself on her hands, sending a bone-rattling ache from her palms up to her shoulders. Anders sighed loudly and reached for her, but she twisted her elbow from his hand. 

“Stop trying to coddle me,” she yelled. “Stop trying to take care of me. I don’t need taking care of, okay? Just stop it!” 

Anders plopped down beside her with a scowl. “You’re a pain in the ass. You’re aware of that, right?” 

“It takes one to know one,” she said acidly.

Anders gave her a chiding look, and she glared at him before looking away. For a long moment, they were silent as Roman tried to gather the strength to stand up again. 

She stared fixedly at the door of her mansion, which was now only about a hundred paces away. She just needed to get up onto her feet and walk a hundred more paces. Just a hundred more steps… 

She breathed through the nausea and the chills and stared stubbornly at the door. Then Anders spoke in a quiet voice. “I told the others not to follow you, by the way. Varric and Isabela especially. They wanted to come to keep an eye on you, but I told them to go do some good elsewhere.”

Roman shrugged. “Whatever. I don’t care.” It was good that the others weren’t here. It was humiliating enough for them to see her vomiting on the steps of the Viscount’s Keep like an amateur drunk. Having them stare at her while she was sick in her own house would be even worse, so it was for the best that they weren’t here.

Anders nodded, then stood up. “All right. Ready for the home stretch?”

She ignored his outstretched hand and used her staff to heft herself onto her feet. A couple of torturous minutes later, she was placing her palm on the front door of the mansion and muttering a spell.

“Hey,” Anders said sharply. “Hawke, don’t do that—”

It was too late. The spell had already activated the magic lock embedded in the door, and Roman realized too late that using magic to unlock the door was a mistake. 

The door opened, and Roman collapsed into a heap in the foyer. 

She heard Orana and Bodahn exclaimining in dismay, and Anders _tsk_ ed as he stepped over her and shut the door behind them. “Maker’s mercy, Hawke. Why did you do that?”

“I didn’t think about it,” she mumbled. And truly, she hadn’t. The front door of the mansion had a regular lock and key, of course, but she’d long grown used to using the magic lock she’d installed for nights when she was too drunk or tired — or both — to get out her keys after a night at the Hanged Man. 

“Well, it might have put you over the tipping point,” Anders scolded. “You can’t use any more magic tonight, or you could go into shock.” 

Roman glared blearily at him, but before she could retort, she heard an anxious bark. A second later, Monty was butting her shoulder with his nose. 

He whined worriedly and pawed at her. With a titanic effort, she reached up and hooked her arm around the mabari’s neck. “I know,” she muttered. “I know, I look like shit…” She trailed off and narrowed her eyes at the people in the room.

Bodahn and Sandal were crouched beside her while Anders hovered over her. Orana was standing in the doorway wringing her hands and looking scared, and Monty’s muscular bulk was pressed into her side. But there was one other person she’d been expecting to find here. 

_Samson,_ she thought. Where the fuck was Samson? He’d been coming over here almost every night for the past couple of weeks. She would have thought he’d be here by now.

An icy feeling started to fill her chest. Was he in Lowtown still? With the fighting and the qunari and everything being on fire? If he’d gotten himself stuck in Lowtown during the qunari attack, or if he was injured somewhere…

Her heart stopped at the thought. _That fucking dumbass,_ she thought furiously. She took a deep breath, then started pushing herself upright. 

_Come on,_ she scolded herself. _Get up right now._ She tried to force herself to her feet, but by the time she was sitting upright, her head was spinning so much that she thought she might be sick again. 

Bodahn patted her shoulder. “Come on now, Miz Hawke, let’s get you off to bed then.” 

_Don’t touch me,_ she thought, but she didn’t have the energy to say it. Monty whimpered and nudged her arm, but she ignored him and used his furry shoulder to try and get her feet beneath herself.

“Hang on,” Anders said sharply. “What are you doing?”

“An Orlesian waltz,” Roman gritted out. “What’s it fucking look like?” She tried to stand, but she couldn’t get her aching legs to move, especially not with her head spinning like this.

She closed her eyes to try and stop the spinning. Then Anders spoke to her in a quiet tone. “Where are you trying to go?” he asked. 

She took a deep breath to quell her nausea. “To Lowtown,” she mumbled.

“There’s no point,” Anders said. “The Hanged Man is a wreck.”

_Very fucking funny,_ she thought sourly. She took another deep breath, then opened her eyes to glare at him. “I’m not going to the Hanged fucking Man,” she told him. 

His tiny smile faded to seriousness. “You’re not going anywhere. You’re a spell away from going into shock.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, then tried again to get her feet under herself, but Anders placed one hand on her shoulder to keep her down.

She pushed his hand away with way more effort than such a simple act should have taken. “Get out of my way, Anders,” she snarled.

“Make me,” he said. 

She glared venomously at him. How dare he look and sound so calm?

He gave her a look that was both knowing and _obnoxiously_ sympathetic. “Come on, make me,” he said. “If you can make me get out of your way, I will.” 

She gave him a hard look. He was right, and she _hated_ it. She was well-attuned to her own mana, and she knew that if she even tried to light a candle using magic right now, she’d pass out and run a risk of going into shock.

“Fuck,” she hissed, and she pounded her fist feebly on the ground. “Fuck!”

Anders crouched beside her. “Hawke, what’s going on? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she snapped, furious at Samson for not fucking _being_ here. He should have been here. He was supposed to be here in this house where he could stay safe. That was the whole point of him sleeping here, after all: somewhere safe to sleep where he wouldn’t get kicked and spat on. What was the point of having a safe place to sleep if he didn’t fucking use it? If he just ended up staying in Lowtown instead and maybe getting injured, or even killed— 

_No,_ she told herself viciously. _Don’t even fucking think it. Samson’s like a cockroach. He’s a survivor. He’s fucking fine. He just got caught up somewhere._

And that was why Roman had to go to Lowtown. He might need help getting out a sticky spot or something, the stupid dumbass. 

Anders gave her a skeptical look. “Clearly something is wrong. Tell me what it is. Maybe I can help.”

“I don’t want your help!” she yelled. “Don’t you get it? I don’t want your help. _I’m_ fine. I’m not the one to be worrying about.”

“So there’s someone else you’re…” Anders trailed off, and his frown slackened into a look of understanding. “You’re worried about Samson, aren’t you?”

Fuck, _shit_ , the backs of her eyes were pricking. “Shut up!” she barked. “It’s none of your business!”

“I’ll go look for him,” Anders said loudly. 

Roman froze, and Anders went on in a soothing tone. “I was headed back in that direction anyway to help with the casualties,” he said. “I’ll look around for Samson while I’m there. After I make sure you’re not going to do anything stupid like leave the house, I mean.”

“We’ll make she stays right here, Master Anders,” Bodahn said firmly. 

Roman glared at him, but his mustachioed face was resolute. Then Monty let out a determined little ‘woof’ and sat in her lap.

She grunted — the mabari weighed as much as her — and Anders nodded in satisfaction and stood up. “All right. I’ll be going, then. Hawke, I mean it: stay here and rest up. Eat something if you can stomach it—”

“I know, okay?” she snapped. “I know. I’m not a fucking idiot.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Anders retorted.

She glared at him and tried fruitlessly to shove Monty’s muscular body off of her legs, and Anders smirked. “All right, off I go,” he said. He turned and headed for the door.

Roman gritted her teeth, then called out to him. “Anders.”

He turned back and raised his eyebrows, and Roman sighed. “Thanks, okay? Maker’s balls.”

He gave her a faint smile. “You’ll pay me back someday, I’m sure.” A moment later, he was gone. 

Roman sighed, then leaned her forehead against Monty’s shoulder. Bloody fucking balls, she was exhausted. She hadn’t been this tired since she’d fought that ogre a few years back. The ogre that killed Bethany—

_No, shut the fuck up,_ she told herself, but it was too late; now she was thinking about Bethany’s glassy dead eyes, and her mother’s glassy dead eyes and her father’s waxy dead skin — almost her entire family, the whole family except herself and Carver: the people she hadn’t been able to save and who she should have been taking care of, and if Samson got added to that list—

Fuck it, she could feel her face crumpling. She buried her face in Monty’s fur and bit the inside of her cheek until she could taste blood. 

Monty whined softly, and Bodahn patted her shoulder. “Don’t you worry, Miz Hawke,” he said soothingly. “Let’s get you something to eat, and everything will be better then.”

Sandal patted her head. “Enchantment,” he said kindly.

Roman ignored them both and breathed in the woodsy smell of Monty’s fur. She listened as Bodahn spoke softly to Orana, assuring her that he’d seen far scarier battles during the Fifth Blight and encouraging her to go clean up the smashed window on the second floor. 

Her legs were going numb from Monty’s weight. “Get off,” she mumbled. “I won’t leave the house, I swear.”

Monty finally shifted off of her legs, and Roman sighed in relief. Then, painstakingly, she started crawling toward the flickering fire in the main room’s hearth. 

She was so cold, and her entire body felt like she’d been running too hard for too long. If she could get warm in front of the fire, she’d feel stronger, and she’d be able to go to Lowtown herself. 

_Fucking Samson,_ she thought. If something had happened to him, she was going to be _really_ fucking pissed.

It was the last thought she had before she passed out.

###  SAMSON 

“Can we go out now?” the little boy asked. “I want to go out there.”

“Not yet,” Samson whispered. “Them horned warriors are still walking around. You’re not lookin’ to join the qunari, are you?”

In the gloomy darkness of the hovel, the little girl’s eyes went huge with fear, and the boy’s filthy face twisted with horror. “Join the qunari? No way! They’re monsters, me ma always said so!”

“Right,” Samson said. “Then stay here and stay _quiet_.”

The boy pouted, but he nodded in agreement, and Samson carefully shifted to the half-shattered door of the hovel where he and these two newly-orphaned children were hiding.

He peered through the broken door and into the street. It was difficult to tell exactly what was going on; the destruction around the fires was too brightly lit while everything else was thrown into gloom by comparison, but it looked to Samson as though the qunari were heading toward the docks. 

_Strange,_ he thought. If the qunari had been preparing to take over the city, why were they going to the docks? And why weren’t they trying to fight anyone anymore?

He looked at the dirty-faced urchins. “Stay here,” he whispered. “I’ll be back, all right?”

The little girl whimpered, but her brother hushed her before puffing up his scrawny chest and nodding to Samson. 

Samson slipped out of the hovel and into the shadows, awkwardly adjusting his grip on his pilfered sword as he did. He’d taken it off of a dead city guard, figuring that the poor sod wouldn’t need it anymore, but having the steel in his hand only served to remind him how out-of-practice he was. 

_Best hope I don’t need to use it,_ he thought grimly as he made his way to the end of the street. To his surprise, Lowtown didn’t look as terrible as he might have expected; there were a handful of dead city guards and civilians alike, but not the kind of carnage he would have predicted given the suddenness of the attack. 

As he neared the end of the street, the sounds of yelling and jeering grew louder, and Samson’s sense of bemusement deepened. The survivors in Lowtown were loudly taunting the qunari, even throwing some broken bricks and debris at them, but the qunari were ignoring them as they made their way to the docks. 

_What the bloody hell?_ Samson thought. Well, it was a strange scene, that was for sure, but it appeared to be a relatively safe one. 

“That’s right, run off, why don’t ye?” an older woman yelled. “Sail off back to where you came from or the Champion’ll run ye down!”

The Champion? Who was that? Maybe it was Meredith. Samson had heard something about that hard-assed bitch coming in swinging when the fighting had begun.

Other people were shouting now too. “Get gone, you heathen bastards, or the Champion will burn you up like a bad steak!”

“Yeah, Hawke’ll fry you right! Get on out of ‘ere!”

Samson’s heart jolted. _Hawke?_ he thought. What did Roman have to do with this? Maker’s bloody balls, had she gotten tangled up in this mess somehow? What the fuck had been going on while he was holed up in that hovel with those snot-nosed kids?

Well, whatever had happened, Roman had clearly survived it, and apparently in grand style. As Samson listened surreptitiously to the clamouring of the crowd, the night’s events started coming together, like the pieces of a very odd puzzle: Roman and her ragtag group of friends had faced off against the qunari chief, and Roman had used her magic to save Kirkwall from being converted to the Qun.

The more Samson heard, the more a jangling sense of disbelief began to writhe in his gut. Roman single-handedly killing the Arishok and revealing herself openly to be an apostate? It couldn’t be. Roman _hated_ being known and seen in Kirkwall. She would never have let herself be outed as an apostate if she could help it.

Which meant she had no choice but to out herself. Which meant, in turn, that the situation had gotten damned desperate. 

_Bloody Bird,_ Samson thought in frustration. Why couldn’t she just keep her head down for once? Why did she have to go picking such big fights and taking stupid risks? 

He had to get to her house. She was probably fuming and getting blasted drunk with her friends, which meant she wouldn’t really want him around, but Samson didn’t care. She always drank too bloody much when bad things happened, and the least he could do was be someone she could share the bounty with.

He started to make his way to Hightown, but before he could get more than five steps, he remembered the orphans. He stopped and slumped in exasperation. _Bloody little urchins,_ he thought. Not that they could be blamed for their mum being killed during the night’s events, but Samson needed to _be_ somewhere.

He was swiftly backtracking to the hovel when he heard someone calling his name. “Samson!”

He turned to find Anders was jogging toward him. “Doc,” he said cautiously.

“Thank the Maker,” Anders panted. “I thought it would take longer to find you. Can you go to Hawke’s mansion?”

His eyebrows rose in surprise. “Hawke’s — I — _you_ want me to go there?”

“ _She_ wants you to go there,” Anders said. “She was worried about you.”

His tummy jolted. “She — no she wasn’t,” he said dumbly. “She doesn’t get worried about anyone.”

Anders quirked an eyebrow. “She was ready to drag her nearly-overextended self to Lowtown to track you down, so I’d say she was worried. Listen, when you get there, can you tell her you saw me? I have to go.” He stepped away.

“Hang on a minute,” Samson blurted. “She — she’s overextended?” His spine was growing cold at the thought. More than once at the Circle, he’d seen young apprentices going into shock and being taken to the infirmary, and it wasn’t a pretty scene.

“Almost overextended, but not quite,” Anders said. “She did some dangerous magic tonight to kill the Arishok. She’s not to do any more, and she knows it.” He frowned and continued to step away. “Look, I have to help with the wounded—”

“Wait,” Samson said hastily. 

“What?” Anders said impatiently.

“There are two kids,” Samson said. “Orphans, their mum was just killed. Take ‘em off my hands, will you?”

Anders’ frown turned into a look of surprise. “Orphans?”

“That’s right, yeah,” Samson said. “They’re in a wrecked old hovel, just down that way…” He trailed off, feeling somehow guilty for pawning the kids off on Anders. But it wasn’t like he owed them anything. He didn’t even know their names, for Maker’s sake. But then again, he’d given them his word that he’d come back for them…

He sighed loudly at himself, then gave Anders a weary look. “If I take you to them, will you take care of ‘em? I’m just a beggar, but you’re a doctor…”

Anders was still eyeing him with a look of unguarded surprise. “I… Yes, of course,” he said. “Where are they?”

“This way,” Samson said. He took off at a run for the hovel, then slowed down as he approached the hiding spot. 

He poked his head into the hovel. “Oi, it’s me,” he whispered loudly. “It’s…” He then realized that he hadn’t told them his name. Ah, it hardly mattered now.

He sidled into the darkened hovel, and eventually his eyes found the subtle outlines of the two kids huddling into the back corner. “Hey now,” he said quietly. “It’s safe out there. You can come out.”

The boy stood, pulling his sister up as he did. “Safe?” he said eagerly. 

Samson nodded. “There’s a doctor here who’ll look after you.” 

Anders stepped into the hovel. The two children instantly shied away, but Anders crouched and smiled at them. “Hello,” he said softly. “You must be hungry.”

The girl nodded timidly, and she and the boy both drew closer to Anders like moths to a flame. 

_Good enough,_ Samson thought, and he sidled toward the door. “Right,” he said. “I’m off, then.”

“Samson,” Anders said.

Samson looked back at him, and Anders nodded politely. “Thank you.”

Samson gave him a perfunctory nod, then left the hovel at a fast clip. Only when he was at the end of the street did he realize he didn’t know what Anders was thanking him for. 

He headed for Hightown at a steady jog. But as he neared the richer part of the city, he realized with surprise that it looked more battered than Lowtown — far more battered. 

He stepped into the Hightown market and looked around in an awed sort of dismay. It was a bloodbath here. The market had been totally destroyed, and it was liberally sprinkled with dead nobles and city guards and even a few Templars. 

Anxious now, Samson took off at a sprint for Roman’s house. He bolted past the bodies and the crying survivors without looking twice, his heart pounding in his throat. The destruction had spread all the way up to the residential area, and the door of Roman’s house had some superficial damage as though someone had tried to batter it before giving up. 

He skidded to a stop in front of the door, then rifled in his pockets for his key and jammed it in the door. When the door finally opened, he stepped inside and was almost bowled over by Monty. 

He _oomph_ ed as Monty planted his huge paws on his chest. “Down,” he said sternly. “Come on, dog, get down.” 

Monty woofed in his face, then dropped his paws back to the floor and trotted through to the main room, and Samson swiftly followed him. The foyer looked clean and untouched as always, and the main room looked normal too with the messy writing desk and the pristine chandelier overhead and a fire crackling in the fireplace—

His heart stopped. Roman was lying on the floor in front of the fireplace, bundled in blankets on a pallet of cushions with Orana sitting cross-legged near her head. 

“Maker’s balls,” he cursed. He dropped his stolen sword — he hadn’t even realized he was still holding it — then kneeled beside Roman’s still form and reached for the blankets tucked over her head. 

“She’s sleeping,” Orana said softly. 

Samson hesitated, then gingerly pulled the blankets away from her raven-haired head, and his guts clenched. Sure enough, she was fast asleep with her customary sleepy pout in place, but she looked terribly ill. She was so fucking pale, with big dark circles under her eyes and streaks of dirt and blood on her neck and the edges of her face, as though Orana had wiped her face but hadn’t managed to clean more than that. 

_Bloody damned bird, getting into another bloody fight,_ he thought angrily. He looked at Orana. “Why’s she on the floor?”

“She wouldn’t let us move her upstairs,” Orana whispered. “She kept saying she had to wait near the fire.” 

Samson rubbed his forehead. There was fireplace in her bedroom. She could be warm near a fire _and_ on that big cushy bed of hers if she wasn’t so damned stubborn.

“I’ll get her upstairs,” he whispered to Orana. “Can you get a fire going in her fireplace up there?”

Orana nodded and scurried away, and Samson studied Roman’s sleeping face for a moment longer.

Then he roughly shook her shoulder. “Bird,” he said loudly.

Monty yelped in surprise, and Roman’s eyes snapped open. “What?” she blurted. “Whathefuck? Who—” 

Samson squeezed her shoulder more gently. She blearily turned her head to scowl at him, and Samson saw the exact moment when sleep finally ebbed enough for her to recognize him. 

“Samson,” she breathed.

He half-smiled at her despite the lump in his throat. “Heard you killed the qunari chief by yourself,” he said. “Now that’s just showing off.”

She stared blankly at him for a second. Then her face started to twist with anger. “Where were you?” she demanded.

He raised his eyebrows. “Eh?”

“Where the fuck were you?” She started pushing herself up onto her elbows, and Samson watched her effortful movements with growing dismay. Maker, was she ever weak. 

“I asked you a fucking question,” she snapped. “Where the fuck were you?”

“What d’you mean?” he said blankly. “I was in Lowtown, of course.”

“Why weren’t you here?” she pressed. “You were supposed to be here.”

He stared at her with growing confusion. “Supposed to–? I mean, I would have been, but the qunari attacked.”

“You were supposed to be keeping safe here!” she snapped. 

“I was keeping safe in Lowtown,” he said in exasperation. “Did you think I was up in the thick of a fight or something? That’s _your_ special imbecile talent, not mine.”

“You were supposed to be here!” she roared. “You were supposed to be where it’s fucking safe and protected and–” She broke off with a hiccup, then scowled at him again, but her face…

Samson’s lungs froze. Her face was crumpling with a terrible mixture of fury and distress. As he stared at her, she hiccuped again, and tears started pouring down her face. 

Monty whined and tucked his tail between his legs. Roman sat up shakily and wiped her face, but she was sobbing now, and Samson felt like his heart was going to collapse on itself. Never in all the years he’d known her had he seen her cry before. He might have suspected her crying after Leandra died, but he had never seen it, and certainly not like this: these horrible wracking sobs that sounded like they were being ripped out of her chest by force.

He awkwardly patted her shoulder. “Er, Roman–”

She struck his face. “You were supposed to b-be here!” she yelled. 

He recoiled slightly, more surprised than hurt by her weak slap, but she flailed at him again, hitting his chest with her fists, and all the while she was sobbing, sobbing through her gritted teeth as though she was trying and failing to keep the tears trapped behind her teeth. 

Her hand swung toward his face again. He flinched and grabbed her wrist. “Cut it out!” 

She twisted her wrist in his grip and smacked his chest. To stop her from hitting him, Samson abruptly wrapped his arms around her and pulled her against his chest. 

She slumped against him. “Let me – _hic_ – let me go,” she commanded.

“Not until you stop smacking me,” he retorted. 

She didn’t reply. Her body was shaking with sobs and snotty hiccups, and Samson just held her awkwardly while she cried. There was something about this crying jag that alarmed him — beyond the alarm of Roman Hawke crying about _anything_ , that was. There was something uncontrolled about her sobbing, something almost explosive, and he got the sense that his failure to be here on time wasn’t the only reason she was crying.

He rested his cheek gingerly on the crown of her head, and as he did, he got a whiff of Roman’s hair. Even beneath the stench of soot and blood and sweat, he could smell the sweet almond-and-vanilla fragrance of her shampoo.

He wasn’t sure how long he sat there with his arms around Roman’s limp and sobbing body. Long enough to realize that she felt unusually hot through her clothes – a fever from almost being overextended, maybe. 

_Bloody Bird,_ he thought in frustration. She went and almost overextended herself by fighting the Arishok, and she had the balls to tell _him_ off for being in a dangerous situation? 

He frowned down at her. She was still slumped against his chest like a lanky rag doll, but aside from the odd hiccup and sniffle, she wasn’t crying anymore.

He gently squeezed her shoulder. “I was on my way here,” he said quietly. “I was on my way, Bird. Then they started attacking.”

She sniffled but didn’t speak, so Samson went on. “I was comin’ over, all right? And I’m here now, and I’m fine. Nothing to worry about.”

“I wasn’t _worried_ ,” she said loudly. “I wasn’t – I was just – I was pissed and now I’m fucking tired.” 

He gave her a skeptical look. “So all that bawling was because you’re tired?”

“Yes, okay? I’m fucking tired,” she snarled.

_Tired enough that you’re not pushing me away,_ he thought, but he didn’t say so; if he did, she would definitely push him away. 

He couldn’t resist taunting her a little bit, though. “Anders said you were worrying about me,” he said.

“Anders can fuck himself,” she retorted. 

Samson chuckled, and he could have sworn he felt Roman relax a little. Monty started wagging his tail, and the three of them sat there for a while longer, Samson idly rubbing Roman’s arm and breathing in the dirty perfume of her hair while the mabari panted happily beside them.

Then she finally pushed at his chest – a feeble attempt to push him away. “I need a bath,” she said. “I smell as bad as you.” 

He took the insult in stride. She couldn’t fool him anymore; he knew she liked the way he smelled. “All right,” he said. “Come on, then.” He slid one arm around her back and the other under her knees. 

Predictably, she stiffened. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” 

“Taking you upstairs,” he said. He grunted with effort as he stood with Roman in his arms. Maker’s balls, picking someone up this way this was hard on the knees. He was lucky he hadn’t thrown his bloody back out.

Monty barked happily and pelted up the stairs. Roman, meanwhile, was scowling at him. “I can walk,” she protested, but Samson noticed – very significantly – that she wasn’t fighting to be put back down. 

“Uh-huh. Right,” he drawled, and he headed for the stairs. As he neared the stairs, he spotted Bodahn and Sandal standing in the kitchen doorway. 

Bodahn looked worried, but Sandal was smiling as always. Unsure what to make of that, Samson shrugged awkwardly at them and headed up the stairs. 

Roman sighed and rested her head against his chest as they ascended the stairs, and Samson’s heart twisted painfully. He wasn’t sure whether her unprecedented docility was something to enjoy or something to be really worried about.

Orana was standing at the door of Roman’s bedroom. “There’s a fire and a cool bath waiting,” she said nervously.

“Cool?” Roman said. “But I’m fucking freezing.” 

Orana’s expression grew more nervous still. “But mistress, you have a fever…”

Roman sighed loudly. “Fine. Whatever. Thanks,” she mumbled.

Samson nodded to Orana as he sidled into Roman’s room. He went to put her on the bed, but she wiggled feebly and plucked his shirt. 

“No,” she complained. “I need the bath.”

He ignored her and set her down on the bed. “You _need_ to sleep this off and get your mana back up to snuff,” he said pointedly.

She gave him a very arch look. “What the fuck do _you_ know about mana?”

“Enough to know you need sleep to get it back up,” he retorted. 

“I’ll sleep after I take a bath,” she said.

He sighed. “Roman…”

“ _After_ I take a bath, okay?” she snapped. “For fuck’s sake.” She stood up and slowly made her way to the bathroom, and Samson warily watched her unsteady steps. 

He followed her into the bathroom. “How’d you get so ill, eh? Did you really kill the Arishok all by yourself?”

“Yep,” she said. She pulled her shirt off, revealing one of her lacy little bras, but the sight of her bra didn’t turn him on for once. At this moment, with Roman looking so unwell, her delicate little bra only seemed to highlight how slender and breakable she was. 

“You better have been wearing armour,” he said threateningly.

“Of course I was wearing fucking armour,” she said. She shot him a mocking look. “Why? Worried about me, are you?” She leaned heavily against the bathtub and started unlacing her breeches. 

“Yeah, I am,” he said seriously. “You look like fought an entire darkspawn horde tonight.”

She looked at him in surprise, then scowled. “Well, don’t fucking worry. I’m fine. I’ll _be_ fine. I’m always fine. I don’t need you fucking fussing over me.” She pushed her breeches and smallclothes off, then started climbing into the tub. 

She still had her bra on. “Er, Bird—”

“What?” she snapped. She dropped clumsily into the tub, splashing water on the floor as she did. 

Samson closed his eyes for patience, then trudged over to the cupboard in the corner and got out a towel to mop up her mess. By the time the floor was dry, Roman was lounging in the tub with her eyes closed. 

Samson pulled the bathroom stool over to the tub, then sat down and leaned his elbows on the edge of the tub. “You going to take that bra off, then?”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” she taunted.

“Never said I wouldn’t,” he replied.

She huffed but didn’t move, and for a long moment, Samson just sat beside the tub wondering what to do next, or if he should be doing anything. 

He finally reached over and picked up her glass bottle of shampoo. “Dunk your head,” he said. 

She opened her eyes. “What?”

“Dunk your head,” he repeated. “I’ll, er, wash your hair.”

Her eyebrows crept up. “Excuse me?”

He ignored her acidic tone and gave her a flat look. “You’re about as strong as a glass of cheap whiskey at the Hanged Man,” he told her. “I’m washing your hair. Now dunk your bloody head.”

She glared at him. Then, to his surprise, she submerged herself in the water. She rose a moment later and pushed her wet hair back, then gave him a _very_ dirty look. “Don’t you dare fucking tell anyone you did this, or I’ll cut off your balls.”

He stared at her in exasperation. “Bird, who the fuck would I tell?”

She gave him a forbidding look, but she didn’t do anything else to stop him, so he poured some shampoo into his palm and gently rubbed his hands together. She shifted a little closer to where he was sitting, and then, for the first time, Samson started washing someone else’s hair. 

He tentatively slid his hands into the hair at her temples, then rubbed gingerly at her scalp. 

“You can rub harder,” she said. “My head’s not a fucking egg. It’s not going to break.”

“All right,” he said. He rubbed her scalp a bit more firmly, then ran his soapy hands over her hairline to wash her fringe. 

“Watch my eyes,” she complained. 

“All right, all right,” he said testily. “I’m tryin’ here.” He continued to rub his fingers over her scalp, making sure to wash the roots of her hair so she wouldn’t scold him. 

Fortunately, she kept her mouth shut, and when a few long moments passed with no further complaints, he glanced at her. Her eyes were closed, and aside from her usual frown, she looked pretty relaxed. Worryingly exhausted, sure, but relaxed. Maybe he was doing a decent job, then.

But now that he was finished washing her scalp, he realized there was a problem. He didn’t know how to deal with the long part of her hair. 

He cleared his throat awkwardly. “Er, how do I do the rest?” 

“Mm?” she mumbled.

He tentatively ran his hand over the length of her raven-black hair. “Not sure how to wash this part, Bird.”

She grumbled softly. “Just squeeze the shampoo through it. But gently, like you’re washing a silk shirt.”

“Right, right,” he drawled. “Like the way I wash all my underpants, then. Got it.”

She snorted a laugh, and Samson’s heart swooped. He smirked and started gently squeezing the suds through her hair, and when he was done, he started combing his fingers through her hair like he would do to his own. 

She let out a long, slow breath. “I used blood magic in front of a bunch of fucking nobles tonight.”

His hand went still for a second. “Why?” 

“No choice,” she said. “The Arishok almost killed me. That big fucker was faster than he looked. I couldn’t let the fight drag on any longer.” She dunked her head and rinsed her hair, and when she rose to the surface once more, Samson went back to running his fingers through her hair to get the tangles out. 

She answered his unasked question. “Varric spun it,” she said. “He made it sound like I was a hero somehow. He’s got a fucking silver tongue, that dwarf.”

Samson huffed in amusement. “He responsible for your new fancy title, then?”

“What title?”

“The Champion o’ Kirkwall,” he said, half-mockingly. “They were singin’ your praises down in Lowtown.”

Her eyebrows jumped up. “Already? Maker’s balls.”

“That’s a Tethras story for you,” Samson said. “No one in this city can resist.”

She scoffed and closed her eyes again. Samson stroked her hair for a little longer, then picked up the soap and a washcloth. “If Tethras managed to spin it in your favour, then there’s no problem, right?”

She scoffed again. “Don’t be fucking naive. Even if he talked me out of trouble now, it’s going to catch up to me eventually.”

Samson frowned. “How do you know that?”

“Because Meredith knows,” Roman said.

His heart stopped for a second. “Meredith knows you’re a blood mage?” he said faintly.

“No,” Roman said. “But she knows I’m an apostate now.” She suddenly groaned and slumped in the tub. “Fuck, and now Carver will probably get in trouble for not telling her. For fuck’s fucking sake.”

Samson didn’t reply. She was right; Carver was likely going to face a tough interrogation for this, if he didn’t get thrown out of the Templars altogether.

It didn’t bear mentioning this to Roman, though. No point giving her more to worry about until it was necessary. Instead of speaking, he focused on lathering up the washcloth. 

“They’re going to think I’m a monster,” Roman said suddenly. 

He looked at her. A mirthless little smile was on her plump lips. “Just you wait,” she said. “You wait and see. No matter what Varric says, they’re going to find a way to make me into a fucking monster in the end. Mages can’t catch a fucking break in this world.”

He stared at her with an ache in his chest. He had no idea what to say, no idea how to comfort her, because she was right. He’d been a Templar for years, and he’d seen time and time again that no matter how ‘good’ a mage was, how much they obeyed the Chantry’s rules or did as they were told and said their damned prayers and gave in to whatever the other Templars did to them, they couldn’t catch a fucking break. 

Roman let out a humourless little laugh. “Maybe they’re right. Maybe I am a monster. A scary bitch monster who does blood magic and spits at the Templars’ feet.”

“If that’s the case, let’s hope the Templars don’t come knocking,” he said as casually as he could.

“I’ll kill them if they do,” she said. Her face was completely serious now. “I mean it, Samson. If they come after me and try to put me in a fucking Circle, I will fucking kill them. I’ll die fighting before I let them take me.”

A spike of anxiety pierced his chest. He inhaled slowly to calm his racing heart. “Or you could leave,” he said.

Her frown deepened, and he pushed on before she could protest. “Just leave,” he said. “You’ve got coin. You could go anywhere. Just leave Kirkwall behind.”

She curled her lip. “I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“Carver’s here,” she said. “If Meredith is going to try and do something to him, he’s — he won’t fight back against his own commander. If she tries to touch him, I’ll fucking take her apart.”

“Carver’s a grown lad,” Samson said. “He can look after himself.”

Roman’s scowl deepened. “Also, Varric is here. He’d never leave this fucking city. I’m not going to leave him alone to face a fucking mess after he defended me in front of Meredith.”

“He’s also a grown man,” Samson said dryly. “He can also look after himself.”

She ignored him. “Also, _you’re_ here. I’m not going to just leave you on the streets.”

His heart stuttered. She — he was a reason she’d stay in Kirkwall, despite the danger? 

Tongue-tied, he stared at her as her cheeks turned pink. “Besides,” she said loudly, “I’m sick of fucking running. We ran from the fucking darkspawn to get here, and I’m not doing it again. I’d rather fight the Templars than run from them like a whipped dog.”

Samson tried to muster an argument through his scrambling thoughts. “Every damned thing doesn’t have to be a fight, Bird.”

“Some things can’t be solved without a fight,” she retorted.

He gazed at her with growing frustration. “If you die for no good reason, then there’s no one left to win the fucking fight. You have to survive first.”

“There’s no point just surviving forever for no fucking reason!” she snapped. “You need something to stand for, Samson. It’s not good enough to just survive.”

He propped his elbows on the edge of the tub and gave her a hard look. “And what’s your reason for fighting, Bird? What are _you_ surviving for?”

“I don’t know exactly, okay?” she yelled. “I don’t fucking know. I just— when you’re strong enough to fight, you have to find a reason to fight. And _you’re_ fucking strong enough.”

He recoiled slightly. Since when had this argument been about him? “What are you talking about?” he said.

“I don’t know, okay?” she snapped. “I’m… fuck. I’m just fucking tired.” She rubbed her face and ran her hands through her hair, then rested her folded arms on her knees. 

Samson studied her with his heart in his throat. She really did look tired — tired and worn and vulnerable, with her wet lacy bra and her wet hair clinging to her back.

He swallowed hard, then started wiping her back with the soapy washcloth, and she _tsk_ ed. “At least move my fucking hair out of the way,” she mumbled.

“Sorry,” he muttered. He gathered her wet hair and pushed it over her shoulder, then continued washing her back. 

They were silent for the rest of her bath. When Samson had finished washing her back, she took the washcloth and washed the rest of her body, finally taking off her lacy bra in the process, and when she was done, Samson helped her get out of the tub. 

“I can do it myself,” she complained, but she still allowed him to help her, which only reinforced his impression that her energy was slowly but surely ebbing away. She dried herself off haphazardly, then dropped the towel on the floor and tottered back into the bedroom, and Samson hastily followed her in case she fell. 

Without putting on any clothes, she tumbled onto the bed and started weakly pulling back the blankets. “I’m fucking freezing,” she complained.

Samson sighed. It was already overly warm in here from the fire — though the fire didn’t seem to be bothering Monty, who was lounging on his belly in front of the fireplace and watching Roman with a distinctly worried look on his canine face. 

Samson exchanged a long-suffering look with the mabari, then helped Roman to pull back the blankets. Once she was curled on her side in the bed, he tucked the blankets around her. 

She pulled the blankets more snugly around her shoulders, then closed her eyes. Samson sat gingerly on the edge of the bed, and he soon noticed that she was still shivering. 

“You should take some medicine for that fever,” he said.

“It’ll go away after I sleep,” she said without opening her eyes. 

He gazed at her in frustration — she was so fucking stubborn — then stood up and started taking off his clothes. When he was naked too, he slid under the blankets, then shuffled up right behind her and pulled her back against his chest.

He fully anticipated that she’d try to wiggle away, but all she did was click her tongue. “You smell,” she said. 

“I know,” he said. He wrapped his arm around her waist and settled his chin on her bony shoulder. 

She was silent for a moment, and once again, he was unnerved by her unusual docility, even as he couldn’t help but enjoy the warmth of her body.

She eventually broke the silence. “You’re getting hard.”

“Ignore it,” he muttered. “My knob’s got a mind of its own.”

She scoffed, and they were both silent for another moment. Then she spoke again. “You’re lying on my hair.”

“Shut up and go to sleep, Roman,” he said flatly. 

She _tsk_ ed again, and they fell silent once more. He breathed in the fresh sweet scent of her damp hair beneath his cheek and listened to her breathing. The rise-and-fall of her ribs gradually deepened and slowed with slumber, and when he was sure she was asleep, he pressed his lips to her shoulder. 

“You’re not a monster,” he murmured. He closed his eyes, and a few minutes later, with Roman’s fever-warmed skin against his lips, he fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am [Pikapeppa](https://pikapeppa.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr, and your incredible artiste of SOFT SAMMYBOI AND ROMIE is [Schoute!](https://schoute.tumblr.com/) xo


	10. Shit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW smut, with the usual warnings: some pain play and light BDSM, with maybe a light hint of dubcon.
> 
> I envisioned this as happening the same night as Chapter 9 (i.e. the same night after the Arishok battle), but it could happen anytime in late Act II or early Act III.

Samson was woken from a very deep sleep by the shifting of the mattress.

He scowled without opening his eyes. It was probably Roman’s damned mabari making himself comfortable on the bed. Samson wasn’t hugely keen on sharing the bed with Monty, but he didn’t dare suggest to Roman that the mabari should stay off the bed when he was in it. 

“Settle down, dog,” he mumbled.

There was no reply — unsurprising, since Samson was talking to an animal. Then a weight settled across his hips. 

His eyes popped open. In the pitch-darkness of Roman’s room, he could just barely make out her lanky silhouette looming over him as she straddled his naked body.

“Bird?” he croaked. “What—”

“Shut up,” she said, and she rubbed herself against his half-hard cock.

A lightning bolt of shock shot through his body, rousing him more thoroughly from his sleep. Maker’s balls, she was sopping wet. Why was — how — 

She rolled against him again and he groaned, his cock instantly hardening as her slippery heat slid along the length of his shaft. “Roman…”

She gripped his chin and forced his head back into the pillows. “I said shut up,” she whispered, and she rolled against him again.

He exhaled shakily. Her other palm was resting on his abs, and she rubbing herself against him in a smooth and wavelike rhythm, and Samson wasn’t entirely sure this wasn’t a dream. Here he was, lying here naked and hard in this big cushy bed while Roman Hawke was writhing on top of him like a desire demon…

Fuck, that was a bad thought. “Are you a demon?” he asked.

She paused for a second, then _tsk_ ed. “Open your fucking eyes, Samson. Do I look like a fucking demon to you?”

He smirked sleepily. Definitely Roman, then. That was a relief. “All right, all right. Just checking.”

“Dumbass,” she muttered, and she went back to rubbing herself against him. 

He lay there in a sleepy and horny haze, passively enjoying the firm grip of Roman’s hand on his chin and the feeling of her slickness coating his cock while she rubbed her clit against him. Her breathing was growing louder and more erratic, and Samson enjoyed that too. The only thing he wasn’t enjoying, actually, was the bite of her nails on his belly. 

He reached down and tried to push her hand away. “Ease up there, Bird.”

She didn’t ease up. Instead, her nails pressed more firmly into his abs. Then, to add insult to injury, she released his chin and dug the nails of her other hand into his abs as well.

A shock of pain and pleasure shot through his groin. He grunted and grabbed her wrists. “Claws off, yeah?”

“Shut up,” Roman moaned. She pressed her groin firmly against his shaft, and her nails scraped at the raw skin of his belly. 

He grunted again, then finally opened his eyes to glare at her. “I said claws off, you bloody wildcat,” he said in a hard tone.

“Make me,” she breathed.

His cock pulsed with excitement. He stared at her for a second, then pried her hands away from his stomach and forced them behind her back, and she gasped and jerked her hips. 

_Interesting,_ he thought, and he tugged experimentally at her wrists. 

She gasped again and arched her spine, and Samson’s eyes instinctively dropped to her chest. In the darkness of her bedroom, he could barely see the ghostly outline of her body, but if he looked just to the side of her chest, he could see her more clearly in the periphery of his vision: the undulating movement of her body as she rubbed herself against him, and the shadow of her nipple standing out on the pallor of her chest.

A rush of saliva flooded his mouth. Meanwhile, Roman was still rubbing her clit against his cock, her breathing and her movements increasingly frenzied as she rode him, and he stared gormlessly at her for a second, enjoying the look of her and the feel of her and the tension of her wiry wrists in his hands.

She writhed against him. “Let me go,” she panted.

He huffed. “You don’t really want me to let you go.”

She exhaled hard but didn’t reply, so Samson goaded her further. “I think you want me to hold you down on my cock like this until you come all over me.”

She gasped and twisted her hips. “Shut the fuck up,” she gasped.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” he said mockingly.

She growled in annoyance, but she was rubbing herself against him more frantically than ever, and it was fucking maddening. She was so wet and warm, and every caress of her pussy against his cock was making him feel more frantic too. 

_Just get her to finish,_ he thought eagerly. She’d fuck him as soon as she finished, he was sure of it. “Come on, Bird,” he crooned. “Make yourself come for me and maybe I’ll let you go.”

She growled again, and Samson went on as though he hadn’t heard her. “Or maybe I won’t let you go,” he said. “Maybe I’ll get you riding properly on my big hard knob.”

She scoffed. “You’re disgusting.”

“Don’t pretend you don’t like it,” he said. He gave her wrists a rough little shake. “You like this, don’t you?”

She gasped and thrust her hips against him, so he kept on talking. “You like it when I tell you to come,” he said. “You like it when I’m holdin’ your wrists like this and I tell you you’re going to fuck me.”

She gasped and shuddered. “Ah… f-fuck—”

He raised his eyebrows, pleased by how quickly she was reaching her peak. “Are you—”

“Shut up, shut up — _ah!_ ” She gasped and shuddered, then arched her back viciously, and Samson admired the way her climax forced her spine into a lovely curved bow. 

“Samson, fuck me,” she blurted. “Fuck me now!”

Thrilled and eager, he released her wrists, and she braced one hand on his abs and grabbed his shaft. She stroked him once, forcing a pleasured breath from his lungs, and an instant later, she came down hard on his cock.

He grunted with pleasure, and Roman let out a guttural cry. She planted her palms firmly on his pecs and started fucking him hard. 

Samson lay there, stunned and stupified by roughness and the speed of her fucking. He barely had time to gasp in a breath between her every thrust, but his pleasure was rising even so, rising with a speed that even he found startling. 

He stared mindlessly at her nipples. The dark little peaks were swaying toward his face with her every frenzied thrust, and as his rapture kept climbing higher, he couldn’t resist. He lifted himself on one elbow and lunged toward her, taking her nipple in his mouth and sucking hard, and she cried out and gripped his shoulders. “Fuck!” she whined.

He didn’t reply, his mouth occupied by the feel of her nipple against his teeth. He bit her nipple and roughly molded his palm over her other breast, and Roman cried out again before coiling her fingers in his hair.

He suckled her nipple hungrily, then swirled his tongue around the pebbled peak before moving his mouth to her other breast. Roman continued to fuck him, rising and falling relentlessly on the length of his cock until he was gasping desperately at the edge of his rapture. 

She thrust against him and pulled his hair. “Bite me when you come,” she commanded.

“Yeah, all right,” he moaned. “A-all right, I—” A split second later, his climax struck, an unstoppable spill of pleasure through his body like ale pouring from a clumsily tapped barrel.

He groaned and shuddered, then bit her breast as she’d asked. She gasped and dug her nails into his scalp, and the fiery bite of her nails was both an irritant and a catalyst, perversely sending his pleasure even higher. 

He groaned into her breast and bit her nipple, and she continued to writhe on top of him, fucking him until he started to go soft. Then she abruptly rolled off of him and tottered away to the bathroom.

He stared dumbly at her naked butt as she walked away. Then he sighed contentedly and closed his eyes. Maybe it had been a dream after all. As far as dreams went, it was a damned good one. 

Some time later, he felt the mattress shift again. “That better not be Monty,” he mumbled without opening his eyes. 

Roman scoffed quietly as she slid under the blankets. “You better not be complaining about Monty,” she said quietly. 

“I got nothing to complain about,” he said. “Who doesn’t like sharing a bed with a big hairy beast?”

She _tsk_ ed and pushed his hip with her foot. “Good point. Get the fuck out of my bed.”

He chuckled sleepily and didn’t move. “Ah, you know I’m joking. Let the bloody dog up.”

She huffed but didn’t reply. A moment later, she was settled on her back beside him. 

He lay quietly for a moment, drifting in and out of sleep and savouring the suspended moment of stillness that came after he and Roman had sex. Through the haze of half-sleep, however, he slowly realized how odd it was for Roman to lie on her back beside him. She usually lay on her side facing away from him.

He opened his eyes and glanced at her. He could just barely make out her profile, and he could see that she was awake.

“You all right, Bird?” he said quietly.

“I’m fine,” she said, and she started to roll away from him.

Exasperated, he swiftly grabbed her thigh so she couldn’t roll away, and she paused. “What are you doing?” she said irritably.

“Everything’s not always fine,” he said. “Things are a pile of nug shit sometimes. It’s all right to say so.”

“What’s the point of that?” she demanded.

He shrugged and released her thigh. “It’s like throwing up. You’re getting rid of poison or something.”

“Not if you spend all your time thinking about how shit things are,” she said. “Then you’re just poisoning yourself even more.”

“I suppose so,” he mumbled.

She was quiet once more, and Samson found himself drifting in and out of consciousness again. Roman was lying close enough to him that he could feel the heat of her skin, and when he breathed in, he could smell the sugar-sweet scent of her shampoo. 

A rare feeling of wellbeing spread through his limbs and up to his mouth, prompting him to talk again. “You still awake?” he said.

“I am now that you’re fucking talking,” she said quietly. 

He huffed drowsily. He already knew she was awake by the cadence of her breathing. “Things aren’t so shit right now,” he murmured.

Roman was silent for a long moment. Then she jerked her shoulder in a shrug. “I guess.”

He smiled faintly. Then, on impulse, he reached over and grabbed her hand.

“What are you doing?” she demanded.

“Shut up, Roman,” he said. He laced his fingers with hers and pulled her hand onto his chest, then closed his eyes.

For a long minute, Roman didn’t move. Her fingers were stiff in Samson’s hand, but she wasn’t pulling away, and that odd but pleasant sense of contentment continued to fill his chest. 

Then Roman rolled toward him and pressed her forehead to his arm.

His eyes popped open. She was letting him hold her hand, and now she was curling toward him?

She pressed her knees against his hip so her shins were pressed flush to his thigh, and his heart pulsed as though a large pair of hands was reaching inside his chest. _Don’t say anything,_ he told himself. If he teased her, she would hiss at him and move away. 

Unfortunately, his drowsy brain wasn’t fast enough to stop his mouth from moving. “Gettin’ cozy, are you?” he teased.

“Shut the fuck up,” she muttered. “I’m cold.” 

He smirked and closed his eyes once more. With Roman’s fingers twined with his and the lovely scents of sex and soap in his lungs, Samson fell back into a deep and pleasant sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your writer is [Pikapeppa on Tumblr,](https://pikapeppa.tumblr.com/) and [Schoute](https://schoute.tumblr.com/) is your wonderful artist and creator of Roman Hawke! xoxo


	11. Peace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Relevant codex entry that is mentioned in this chapter: [the journal pages by the Band of Three.](https://dragonage.fandom.com/wiki/Codex_entry:_The_Enigma_of_Kirkwall) Not necessary to read before reading the chapter, but I recommend checking them out if you haven't before - very creepy and mysterious.... [fades away like a ghost]

###  ROMAN 

Roman stepped into the mansion and kicked the door shut, then exhaled and leaned back against the door. It was late and she was fucking tired, and she just wanted a second of peace.

“Bird? Is that you?”

Samson’s voice was calling from the kitchen. She opened her eyes, then propped her staff against the wall before trudging through the mansion. 

Sure enough, Samson was in the kitchen. He was leaning against the kitchen island and eating some chicken and roasted potatoes while Monty sat at his feet looking up at him with a pitiful expression. 

Roman grunted and went straight to the enchanted icebox. “You better not be feeding him people food. He’ll get fat.” She picked out a bottle of cider, and when she turned around, it was to find Samson looking vaguely guilty.

She wilted. “I told you not to feed him fucking people food.”

Samson scowled and popped another piece of potato in his mouth. “This mabari’s a real pain, you know,” he said as he chewed. “It’s like he doesn’t understand me.”

“You’re just a soft touch,” Roman said. “Of course he understands you. He’s a smart boy.” She crouched beside Monty and scratched his jowls. “You’re a smart boy, aren’t you?” she crooned. “Samson shouldn’t give you people food, no he shouldn’t.”

Monty wagged his tail, and Samson huffed. “You’re back late. Picking fights at the Hanged Man, were you?”

“Yeah, I was,” she said belligerently.

Samson shot her a long-suffering look, and she rose to her feet and frowned at him. “Don’t look at me like that. It wasn’t my fault.” She pulled the cork out of the bottle and took a sip. 

“It’s never your fault though, is it?” he asked, and he reached for the bottle of cider. 

She shot him a dirty look but handed over the bottle. “It really wasn’t my fucking fault this time, okay? It was Fenris’s. Well, not Fenris’s,” she amended, “but it was related to Fenris.”

Samson lowered the bottle in surprise. “I thought he didn’t like getting involved in your fights.”

She rolled her eyes and snatched the bottle back from him. “I told you, it wasn’t my fight, it was his. His former master showed up.”

Samson’s eyes widened. “Former master? You mean a Vint magister was here in Kirkwall?”

“Yeah,” Roman said, and she took another sip of cider. That wasn’t the worst of it, though. Roman still couldn’t believe Fenris’s own sister had tried to sell him out to his former master. She didn’t mention Fenris’s sister to Samson, though. She and Fenris didn’t agree on much, but they both valued privacy. If Roman was in Fenris’s place, she wouldn’t want strangers knowing her business either.

Samson scratched his whiskered chin. “And here I thought the Templars were helping the city guard to crack down on who comes in and out o’ Kirkwall.”

“Templars,” Roman said scornfully. “They’re corrupt as fuck, even if precious Meredith doesn’t want to see it. Grease the right palms and practically anyone could get in here.” She took another sip of cider, then set the bottle down and picked a piece of chicken from Samson’s plate. 

“Hey, get your own,” he said, but with no real heat.

She huffed and chewed the chicken and ignored Monty’s pleading eyes, and for a moment they were quiet as Samson selected another chicken thigh from the platter on the island and started cutting it up. 

He broke the silence. “If there was a Vint magister here…” He shook his head. “Maker. If there was anyone I’d think the Templars would try to keep out, it’d be magisters.”

Roman scoffed and stole another sliver of chicken from his plate. “Yeah, because more mages are the worst thing that could happen to this shithole,” she said sarcastically.

Samson didn’t reply. He was frowning slightly, and Roman narrowed her eyes. “Don’t tell me you agree.”

He sighed and scrubbed a hand over his chin again. “I’ve been hearin’ things,” he said slowly. “Down in Lowtown, and in Darktown too. A lot of abomination attacks, sounds like.”

Roman aggressively bit the piece of chicken in her fingers. “Yeah?” she said in a hard voice. “Have you also heard how the Templars have started punishing the Circle mages even more harshly? Anders said that a full quarter of the Circle mages are Tranquil now.”

Samson flinched at this, and Roman felt a pang of guilt. She knew that the Tranquility process was a sore issue for him, given what had happened to Maddox after Meredith had thrown Samson out of the Templars. 

She swallowed her bite of chicken, then pushed the bottle of cider across the counter toward him. He picked it up and took a sip, then set it down and jerked his chin in the direction of the main room. “You got some letters, by the way,” he said. “Both from the Gallows.”

Roman sighed loudly. Two letters from the Gallows always meant the same thing: both Orsino and Meredith were trying to get her help with some bullshit task. “Fuck that. They can wait until tomorrow.” She plucked a piece of potato from Samson’s plate and ate it while she brooded about Meredith, then picked up the bottle of cider. “The fucking gall of that bitch, trying to get me to help her,” she complained. “She’s just trying to find an excuse for her fucking puppets to drag me in.”

“Better not give her one, then,” Samson said.

She gave him a dirty look. “I know, Samson. I’m not a fucking idiot.” For the past month or so, she’d cut down on her use of blood magic, doing it only when she was working a spell at home or when she was outside of the city limits. It infuriated her to play into the Chantry’s bullshit sanctions against blood magic, and if she had it her way, she’d keep using blood magic in her perfectly safe way even within Kirkwall’s bounds. 

But Roman didn’t just have herself to think about. She was famous here now — or infamous, depending on who you talked to — and her actions were under scrutiny, no matter how much she tried to keep to herself when she was out and about. Anything she did would reflect poorly on the people close to her… particularly on Carver. 

_Fucking Carver,_ she thought angrily. She couldn’t give the Chantry an excuse to make her brother a scapegoat for _her_ choices. 

She and Samson continued to eat silently from his plate. As the minutes stretched on with no further commentary from Samson, she started to watch him suspiciously. He was usually more talkative than this. Not that he was a huge talker or anything, but he usually had more to say than, well, nothing.

She narrowed her eyes. “What’s wrong with you?”

He glanced at her. “Nothing. This chicken’s good.”

Roman grunted, and they fell silent again. When his plate was cleared, she frowned at him. “Seriously, what is your problem?”

He raised an eyebrow and reached for the cider. “What are you on about?”

She gave him an arch look. “If you’re trying to do some kind of ‘strong and silent’ bullshit, it’s not working.”

Samson lowered the cider bottle from his lips and shot her a chiding look. “You sure about that? It seems to be getting your knickers all twisted.”

She scoffed and grabbed the bottle of cider from him. “My knickers aren’t fucking twisted.”

“Too bad,” he said. “I was going to offer to untwist ‘em for you, but…”

She ignored his innuendo. “Are you pissed about what I said about the Tranquil?”

His sarcastic little smirk slipped away. “No.”

“I wasn’t being an asshole,” she said defensively. “I was — it’s just the fucking truth.”

“I know, Bird,” he said tiredly. He sidled past her and headed for the front door.

Roman put her cider down and followed him. “Where are you going?”

“I’ve got to get more of the dust,” he said, and he slid his feet into his worn-out shoes.

She raised her eyebrows. “Now?”

“When else is a man supposed to go meet his illegal lyrium dealer?” he said sardonically. 

Roman pursed her lips but didn’t reply. Samson bent down to tie his shoes, and she leaned against the doorjamb and folded her arms as she watched him. She knew he needed the lyrium; she’d seen what happened to him when he ran out of it, and she didn’t want to see him suffer like that again. But still, sometimes she wished…

She discarded the fleeting thought. There was no point wishing Samson didn’t need the lyrium. He’d told her long ago that he would die without it, and she had no reason to not believe him. It wasn’t like she knew any Templars who had ever quit taking lyrium. 

She pushed away from the doorjamb and wandered over to him. “I’ll come with you.”

He looked up in surprise. “Eh? What for?”

_To hit back if someone hits you,_ she thought, but she wasn’t going to fucking say so. She shrugged, and Samson smirked as he stood up. 

“You going to be my knight in shining armour again?” he taunted.

She scowled. “No. Fuck you.”

He raised an eyebrow, and she scoffed and looked away. “You know what, whatever. Forget it.”

“All right, good,” he said affably. “Gettin’ into a brawl kind of defeats the purpose of going out in the middle of the night.” He chucked her chin playfully.

She smacked his hand away. “Don’t touch me.”

He suddenly gripped her chin. Before Roman could snap at him to let her go, he was kissing her: a quick firm kiss on the lips — so quick that she didn’t have time to bite him or push him away before he released her. 

He opened the door. “Go eat some more. I’ll be back soon,” he said, and then he was gone. 

She wrinkled her nose at the closed door. How dare he kiss her? He was such an asshole. 

Beside her, Monty sat back on his haunches and tilted his head curiously. Roman looked down at him for a second, then sighed and crouched beside him. “Go with him, okay?” she murmured. “If he gets hit, you jump in and bite back for him. He’s a fucking idiot, he won’t defend himself.”

Monty stood and wagged his tail, and Roman opened the door for him. He bounded away into the darkness, and Roman went back to the kitchen with a sigh. 

She picked up the half-empty bottle of cider and took another sip, then wandered over to her writing desk to check out her letters. She pushed away the ones from Orsino and Meredith without opening them, then paused when she saw a thicker envelope with Varric’s handwriting on it.

She frowned as she opened it. The envelope contained a bunch of worn journal pages that were variously dirty and bloodstained, topped with a short note from Varric.

> Hawke,
> 
> Remember that old journal page we found wedged into a brick wall that one time — something by the “Band of Three”? I had a couple sharp eyes looking out for more pages, and this is what they found. I put them together in the order I think they’re supposed to go. Kind of hard to tell without dates, but this is the best I could do. 
> 
> Come on down to the Hanged Man after you read them and let me know what you think. You’ll probably want a drink, anyway. I always knew shit in Kirkwall was weird, but this takes the cake.
> 
> \- V. 

_That’s cryptic as fuck,_ Roman thought. She took the pages and her bottle of cider to the study and plopped down on the couch in front of the fireplace, then began to read.

###  SAMSON 

Samson sidled into the shadows as he made his way through Hightown. There was a faint feeling of unease in his gut, like a hint of nausea, and it revolved around the mages in Kirkwall.

He’d been hearing stories down at the docks: stories about people cutting their wrists and getting possessed by demons and exploding into monsters who gobbled up their whole families. Samson was too jaded and skeptical to believe any old story he heard on the streets, but he’d been hearing tales for weeks now, versions of the same stories, and he’d been able to put together enough pieces to know that not all of the stories were made up. 

Kirkwall had always had its share of horror stories involving mages, most of which Samson had heard in the course of his business of smuggling mages _out_ of the city. This familiarity meant he was all the more aware that there were more stories than ever before, and they were getting more and more bizarre. 

Mysterious deaths involving ice and lightning, flash fires with no evidence of kindling or fuel, people behaving strangely and talking in tongues, people going missing… He knew Roman didn’t want to hear it, and he didn’t even want to believe it himself, but the truth was this: there was a mage problem in Kirkwall.

Roman was right too, though. Samson had heard things from the Gallows, whispers from the merchants and the few visitors who came and went from that ghastly fucking place, and he knew that Roman was right: Meredith was handing out the Tranquility sentence these days like a Chantry sister handed out blessings on Satinalia, and Samson’s former brethren were feeding right into her tyrannical attempts to control the mages. 

Samson sighed. He’d heard enough and _lived_ through the nugshit for long enough that he could see all the moving parts in this Maker-forsaken place, almost like looking at the inside of a clock: the Templars were getting more controlling and punitive, and the mages were getting more desperate to protect themselves. The hysteria of it all was bleeding down from the Gallows to Kirkwall proper, making the city guard more fearful about magic and making the hidden apostates more fearful than ever of persecution. If something didn’t change, if things continued down this route, the city was going to explode like one of those qunari _gaatlok_ barrels. 

His troubled thoughts were interrupted by the sound of heavy breathing behind him. He barely had time to be alarmed before a heavy muscular body rammed into his hip.

He stumbled, then caught his balance on a nearby wall and stared in surprise at Monty, who was standing beside him and wagging his tail so enthusiastically that his whole body was shaking. 

Samson gathered himself and frowned at the mabari. “What are you doing here, eh?” 

Monty sat and gazed at Samson attentively, and Samson wrinkled his nose. “Did _she_ send you after me?”

Monty let out a little bark, and Samson jumped before scowling at him. “Quiet, dog,” he scolded in a whisper. “You’re going get people looking. If you’re going to follow me, you have to shut your trap.”

Monty panted but didn’t bark again, and Samson gazed at him a little resentfully. It looked like Monty really did understand him. Just not when Samson was saying ‘no’ to feeding chicken to the big furry fucker.

He sighed. “All right, come on then. But be quiet,” he said severely, and together they continued on their way to Lowtown in silence.

Samson watched the mabari from the corner of his eye as they walked. It was so strange having any kind of company when he went… well, anywhere really. Monty, on the other hand, seemed perfectly at ease as he trotted along at Samson’s side.

Within the space of a couple of minutes, Samson had adjusted to Monty’s presence. It helped that Monty was almost entirely silent. He was a big bloody dog, and Samson would have expected him to make some noise as he walked, but he was pleasantly surprised at how quiet Monty was. 

He shot the mabari a sideways glance. “She really sent you along, eh?”

Monty looked up at him with his mouth agape in a wide doggy smile, and Samson huffed. “Let me guess. She told you to attack anyone who attacked me, right?”

Monty wagged his tail, and Samson pursed his lips. Bloody bird, always acting like he was some kind of coward for not picking fights like she did. He’d told her time and time again that it was smarter to run or hide than to fight back, especially for someone like him: someone powerless, someone that the city guard wouldn’t move to protect if something really went wrong. Besides, he did fight back sometimes when he was attacked — _if_ fighting back was the smarter move. Roman was hotheaded and angry, always looking for the next person she could justifiably throw a fireball at, but Samson wasn’t like her. He wasn’t strong like her.

_Leave it to the damned bloody bird to be the strong one,_ he thought tiredly. _I’ll do things my own way._ Samson might not be strong anymore, but at least he had his street smarts. He’d just keep sticking to the smarter course, whether it meant hiding or fighting back. He’d keep doing what he needed in order to survive.

He and Monty were about to step into the market when he spotted something strange: two men and a woman talking in low and urgent voices in a corner. He slowed down and placed his hand on Monty’s head, and Monty slowed down to a stop as well. 

Together, they sidled a little closer to the furtive trio. Samson couldn’t move close enough to hear what they were saying, not without making himself and the mabari visible, but as they edged a little nearer, Samson had a jolt of recognition: he knew one of the men — or at least, he thought he did. The man’s blond hair was shorter than Samson remembered, and he had a beard where his face used to be bare, but Samson was fairly sure this blond bloke was a Templar.

_On shore leave from the Gallows, looks like,_ Samson thought. Then, with another jolt, he realized that he recognized the woman too: she was a known mage sympathizer. 

_Strange,_ he thought. He watched the trio for a minute longer, trying to determine if he could conclusively identify the blond fellow as being a Templar, but he really wasn’t able to get any closer without being seen. When the three people made signs of looking like their meeting was coming to an end, Samson quickly ducked into a nearby alleyway with Monty to hide.

When the trio had dispersed, Samson patted Monty’s head. “Let’s go, dog.”

They quickly slunk through the market and into the lower-class suburb that led toward Lowtown, and Samson pondered what they’d witnessed. A Templar and a mage sympathizer having an amiable little late-night meeting? Meredith wouldn’t be too chuffed about that. Or maybe the mage sympathizer wasn’t as sympathetic as she seemed and was feeding information about apostates back to the Gallows, in which case old Orsino would be the unhappy one. 

Samson and Monty made their way through Lowtown proper. As usual, Lowtown was more active — and more dangerous — at night than Hightown was, and Samson listened furtively as he made his way to the usual meeting spot for his lyrium-smuggling contact down by the market. The gossip was the same as he’d heard earlier today: mentions of a fish merchant closing down for the week after selling some clams that made people sick, talk of a few lingering qunari out on the Wounded Coast, reports of a young elf getting dragged off to jail by a guardsman after stealing a few apples for his family, the usual grim fare. But one piece of gossip in particular deepened his worries. 

It was a corrupt city guardsman talking to some other human. “... those knife-ears still cleaning blood and guts off of that big tree in the alienage. You know, the one they tie all those poncy ribbons to.” He chuckled. “That’s what happens when apostates hide out in the alienage: all that knife-ear nugshit makes ‘em blow up. Too bad and serves ‘em right if you ask me.”

Samson frowned as he slunk past the guardsman and his friend. He knew about the incident in question because Roman had been directly involved. Meredith had forced her to track down three runaways from the Circle by making indirect threats toward Carver, and one of the runaways was a possessed mage — a mage who had, as indicated by the guardsman, become an abomination and ultimately exploded into a shower of blood when Roman was forced to kill him. 

“Is that a mabari?” 

“What’s a mabari doing with that homeless fellow?”

“That’s not… it’s not _Hawke’s_ mabari, is it?”

_Maker’s balls,_ Samson thought in exasperation. He knew he shouldn’t have let Monty come with him. The damned dog was drawing far too much attention, including curious looks from the corrupt guardsman.

He shot Monty a resentful look. Monty ducked his head and tucked his tail between his legs, and Samson immediately felt bad. It wasn’t Monty’s fault, after all; it was Roman’s. He’d have to have a word with her when he got back to the mansion.

He quickly met up with his contact and traded a few silver for lyrium powder, then selected a more convoluted but quieter route back to Hightown so they wouldn’t be stared at. As they silently made their way back to Roman’s house, Samson brooded over that abomination incident in the alienage. 

He’d always known there were apostates hiding throughout the city, but he’d somehow not thought much about how much harder it had to be for the apostates who were elves. He’d helped to smuggle out dozens of apostates in his time, and he count on one hand the number of times they’d been elves, and the reason was obvious: they didn’t have the coin. Mages who didn’t have the coin to smuggle their way out of the city must be even more afraid, which made them more prone to possession — more prone than they already were if they hadn’t had any training at the Circle.

He rubbed his forehead. _Maker’s balls, I’m tired,_ he thought, and he continued on his way to Roman’s house.

When they got back to the house, Samson let Monty in before following him inside and closing the door. “Oi, I’m back,” he called. He took off his shoes and padded through to the main room, and when he didn’t find Roman there, he peeked into the study. 

Monty was already lying on his belly in front of the fireplace, and Roman was sitting on the couch and scowling at the fire. There was a sheaf of papers beside her and two empty cider bottles on the floor, and another half-finished bottle in her hand.

Samson wilted slightly. Roman had been drinking less since he’d started sleeping at her house. This was the first time in a while that she’d had more than one drink in the evening. 

_At least she’s not drinking rum or whiskey,_ he thought. “You can’t send the dog with me again,” he said as he entered the room. “Everyone was staring. A guardsman was giving me the eye over ‘im.”

She looked up at him. “Kirkwall is a fucking mage trap.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Eh?”

“Look at this.” She picked up the sheaf of papers and thrust it at him, and he took them gingerly. 

The papers were journal entries by some group called the Band of Three who’d been investigating the history of Kirkwall during Tevinter occupation. The more Samson read, the more discomfort he felt twisting in his gut. Secret Vint plans, hundreds of slaves going missing, the city designed in the shape of magical glyphs, gutters in the sewer system meant to channel vast amounts of blood…

By the time he finished reading the pages, the hairs were standing up on the back of his neck. He held the papers out to her. “Where’d you get these from?” he rasped.

“I found one of them. Varric scrounged up the rest.” She stood up and plucked the papers from his hand. “You know what this means, right?”

He pulled a face. “Er—”

She cut him off. “The Veil is thin here,” she said. “That’s why so many mages in the Circle fail that fucking Harrowing ritual bullshit. _That’s_ why some people turn into abominations for doing a single little spell with blood magic. It’s this fucking city. It’s…” She waved her arms in an angry expansive gesture. “The whole environment is against us, and the Templars just make it worse!”

Samson blinked at this. “Hang on.” He rubbed his face with both hands, then gazed wearily at her. “You’re telling me that Kirkwall is a… a bad place for mages, but the Templars are the problem?”

“They’re definitely not a fucking solution, that’s for sure,” she retorted. “Everyone knows that demons are attracted to fear.”

“And to anger,” Samson said pointedly.

“Exactly,” Roman said angrily, missing his point entirely. “And think about what’s pissing me off. It’s the Templars!” She waved the journal pages. “It’s already hard enough for us to live here, and they’re just making it harder.” She tossed the pages on the floor and drank from her half-finished bottle of cider, and Samson frowned. 

“What is it you want, then?” he said slowly. “You want to just… get rid of the Templars or something?”

She lowered the bottle and gave him a frank look. “Sounds like a good fucking plan to me.”

He stared at her with growing disbelief, then laughed. “You’re not bloody serious.”

“Do I look like I’m fucking laughing?” she said. “It’s the Templars that are making the mages so desperate that they’re turning to… to summoning demons and other shit that they don’t understand.”

“And when they summon demons and do that shit, someone needs to be able to stop them,” Samson retorted.

Her face went slack with disbelief, then twisted back into anger. “You can’t be fucking serious about this. You’re defending them? They threw you out!”

“That bitch Meredith threw me out,” he corrected.

She threw her hands up in frustration. “So what, now you think the Templars are justified? Now you think it’s okay to keep the mages locked up in a fucking tower with no freedom?”

“No,” Samson said loudly. “That’s not what I’m bloody saying. I’m just….” He sighed and rubbed his face again, then looked at her once more. “Think about it, Bird. Say the Templars get dismantled. What happens to ‘em?”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” she said impatiently.

“What happens to Templars who have no use anymore?” he said, and he gestured sarcastically at himself.

The fury in her face loosened slightly, and Samson gave her a humourless smile. “You didn’t even think about it, did you? Well, you should. Think about Carver there. The Order falls apart, and he’ll end up like me, just a ruined—”

“You’re not fucking ruined!” she bellowed suddenly. “Stop saying that!”

Samson closed his mouth and stared hard at her. An ugly pause ensued, electric and tense like the brewing of a heavy summer storm. The longer he and Roman went without speaking, the more he felt the old memories rising to the front of his mind, like bloated corpses cut loose from the bottom of the sea: his disbelief at being kicked out of the Order and out of the only home he had, all for something so trivial. The betrayal and the loneliness. The shakes and the nausea when the withdrawal first set in. The delirium, the beatings, the confusion, the raging thirst and hunger during the moments when he was lucid, the horrific hallucinations when he wasn’t. The humiliation of having to find a black-market lyrium dealer, and the slow erosion of his soul as his muscles and his purpose and his confidence wasted away bit by bit. 

For a first time in a long, _long_ time, the old injustices were burning in his belly and burning through the shroud of his usual world-weary passivity, prompting him to take an aggressive step toward her. “I _am_ ruined, Roman,” he said in a hard voice. “You didn’t know me when I was in the Order. If you did, you’d know I’m a bloody shadow of the man I used to be.” 

She sighed and rolled her eyes. “Samson, for fuck’s—”

He interrupted her. “Is this what you want for Carver?” he said harshly. “You want that big brute to end up like this, all wasted away and jonesing for the dust?”

She opened her mouth again, but Samson didn’t let her speak. “You going to write to Her Divine Holiness and tell ‘er to dismantle the Templars?” he said aggressively. “Tell her to let every one of ‘em end up on the streets like beggars?”

She narrowed her eyes. “If you really think that’s what would happen to them, what does that say about the Chantry and your precious fucking Order?”

He exhaled hard and glared at her, furious at not being able to find a reply. Roman leaned away and planted her fists on her skinny hips. “Besides, it’s not like complaining to the precious fucking Divine would do anything,” she said. “You think she’d break up her personal army for the good of the mages? Not a fucking chance.”

“They’re not supposed to be her personal army,” Samson snapped.

“And the Circles aren’t supposed to be jails for mages, but look where we are,” Roman drawled.

All of a sudden, Samson had had enough. “Fine then, everything in the world is shit,” he shouted. “Are you happy now?”

She recoiled slightly, then sneered at him. “No, actually. I’m fucking pissed.”

“No different than all the fucking time, then,” he said acidly, and he strode away to the kitchen. He threw open the enchanted icebox and stared unseeingly at its contents. Truthfully, he hadn’t been planning to get anything out of here. All he knew was that he didn’t want to be around Roman right now.

Unfortunately, she didn’t get the hint; a second later, she was storming up to him. “What the fuck is your problem?” she yelled. “Why are you being such an asshole?”

He slammed the icebox shut. “Me?” he said incredulously. “ _I’m_ just tryin’ to survive, Bird. I’m just trying to make the best of this bullshit that we’re living through.”

“What do you think I’m trying to do?” Roman demanded.

“You’re trying to pick a fucking fight,” he snapped. “I can see it in your face. You’ve never tried to keep your head down. You want a war with the Templars, don’t you?”

“I don’t _want_ a fucking war, but that’s what’s coming,” she yelled. She shot him a scathing look. “And don’t act like you don’t know it’s coming. You’re one of the smartest people in this fucking city. You know exactly what’s coming.”

He raised his eyebrows, thrown off by her compliment in the midst of her vitriol. “So… so what, you think there’s a war coming and nothing can stop it?”

“Yeah,” she said. “That’s what I think.” She took a slow step closer to him and belligerently lifted her chin. “There’s a war coming between the mages and the Templars. And if you won’t pick a side, you’re a fucking coward.”

_Coward._ The word shot straight through his chest like an icy spear. It wasn’t that she was wrong necessarily, because she wasn’t. Samson wasn’t brave or principled or any of that shit, so if he didn’t have any of those precious virtues, that must mean he was a coward. But to hear Roman saying it to his face…

His chest squeezed painfully, almost as though she was digging her nails through his rib cage to rend his heart. He swallowed hard and glared at her. “Fuck you,” he spat, and he pushed past her and headed back to the study.

He sat down heavily on the couch. Monty sat up and whined softly, but Samson ignored him; he lay down on the couch and closed his eyes.

A moment later, he heard Roman’s strident voice. “What in the Maker’s fucking ballsack are you doing?”

“Cooking a four-course Antivan meal,” he said flatly. “What’s it bloody look like?”

She barked out a nasty little laugh. “You’re fucking sleeping down here, then? Is that it?”

He opened his eyes and glared venomously at her. “Yeah, I am. I’m sleeping here tonight, and I’ll get out of your hair first thing in the morning so you don’t have to share your fucking fancy house with a coward.” 

Her jaw clenched visibly, but she didn’t speak, and Samson’s heart twisted. She really did think he was a coward, then.

He rolled onto his side and closed his eyes once more. “Go away, Roman. Leave me alone.”

She scoffed. When she spoke again, her voice was moving away toward the stairs. “Fuck you too, then. See if I fucking care.”

He didn’t bother to reply. A few seconds later, he heard the slamming of her bedroom door. 

He drew a deep breath and ignored the swelling feeling in his throat. Then something nudged his back.

He jolted in surprise, then sighed loudly; it was Monty snuffling around him. 

He shifted his shoulders in annoyance. “Leave off, dog,” he said quietly. “Go upstairs.” 

Monty whined and nudged him again, and Samson shrugged irritably. “I said leave off,” he snapped. “I don’t want your company.”

Monty whined again, but the nudging stopped. A moment later, he heard the distant sound of Monty’s scratching nails, followed by the opening and closing of Roman’s bedroom door.

Feeling even shittier now, Samson sighed and slowly stood up, then shuffled around the lower level of the house putting out the oil lamps and chandeliers. When the house was dark except for the lingering flames in the fireplaces, he lay back on the couch in the study and folded his arms behind his head. 

He stared blankly up at the ceiling for a long time, exhausted but unable to sleep. His gut was a buzzing mess of agitation, and his chest felt like there was rock sitting in the center of his ribs. His mind kept running fruitlessly over all the negative thoughts in his head — and there were a _lot_ of negative things to go over: abomination attacks, a quarter of the Circle’s mages being Tranquil, Meredith blackmailing Roman to do what she wanted, Roman wishing she could dissolve the Templars, Roman yelling about a war that no one could stop, Roman telling him he was a coward…

His heart twisted painfully, and he breathed slowly to quell it. She was such a bloody bitch: telling him he was smart one second then calling him a coward the next, and sending her mabari to follow him as though he was a fucking child who couldn’t look after himself. She was so fucking stubborn and hard-headed, always carrying on about how fucked up the Templars were and how fucked up this entire city was.

_But she’s not wrong,_ he thought as he remembered those papers she’d shown him. That history of the Vints doing some kind of mysterious horrible magic right here in this city — this city that was built in the shape of a magical glyph, this city where the Veil was thin and demons were just a whisper away from the minds of its mages…

And Roman was even more vulnerable than most. Rage-filled Roman Hawke, with her fearlessness and her ferocity and her fucking blood magic… A pulse of fear pierced through his heartsick anger. Sure, she had good control over her own magic, but if those journal pages had the right of it, she was in danger no matter what. She was in danger just by virtue of living in this fucking place that she refused to leave. 

_What if she becomes an abomination?_ His gut clenched at the thought. He’d asked her once if she was afraid of becoming an abomination, and she’d told him that she was. What if she _did_ become an abomination, though? What if she became the very thing she feared? What would happen then?

What would Samson do then?

An icy sort of fear was spreading through his chest. _Don’t think about it,_ he thought. He couldn’t think about what he’d do if that happened — not that he _could_ do anything, really, since he wasn’t a Templar anymore. The lyrium he bought off the black market was enough to keep the edge off of his cravings and his withdrawal, but it wasn’t nearly pure enough to channel into any kind of power. If Roman… If something happened to her, there was nothing Samson would be able to do to help her. 

He rubbed his face wearily. He couldn’t believe he was even having to think about this. Truthfully, given the political situation and the ugly history of this city, Samson knew what he and Roman should both really be doing: fleeing this city before it had a chance to explode. 

_And that’s why she thinks you’re a coward,_ he told himself scathingly. But was it cowardly to survive, or was it just the smart thing to do? Who gave a fuck about being called a coward if it meant you got to live?

Then again, what was the point of living the way Samson had before Roman had wandered into his life?

He was suddenly reminded of something else she’d once said: that it wasn’t enough to just survive, to just eke out a living from one day to the next. That people needed something to live for. But Roman herself had admitted that she didn’t know what she was living for. Did Samson know what _he_ was living for, either? 

He sighed. Maybe he really was a coward. Maybe this bloody mage-Templar problem would force him to find something to live for. Maybe Roman was right, and what he really needed was to pick a side. Support the mages, or support the Templars? Support the monsters, or support the people who made those monsters what they were? 

Support the freedom of mages, or support the freedom of the Templars who’d been leashed and brainwashed just as he had been?

_Maker’s fucking balls,_ he thought morosely.

He lay in the dark on the couch for a long time sliding in and out of a restless sort of doze, unable to settle his mind enough to properly sleep. He was vaguely aware of the fire slowly dwindling down to mere embers until the whole study was wreathed in shadows. When a shadow broke away from the gloom to move toward him from the stairs, he thought it was a dream.

The shadow paused at the end of the couch. “Monty won’t shut the fuck up,” she said. “He keeps whimpering.”

Samson frowned at her through the gloom. “So?”

She folded her arms and said nothing for a moment, and Samson stared at her, half-convinced she was just a figment of his imagination. 

“Come upstairs,” Roman muttered.

He raised his eyebrows. “Eh?”

“I said come upstairs,” she said a little more loudly. “I don’t think he’ll shut up until you come upstairs.”

He blinked blearily at her. In the feeble glow of the dying fire, he could just make out the glimmer of her silk robe and her customary pouty scowl. 

He frowned at her, then closed his eyes. “I’m staying here, Bird.”

She clicked her tongue. “You’re telling me you like sleeping on the couch?”

“That’s right,” he lied. Truthfully, his lower back was hurting, but it was still better than sleeping on the ground in Lowtown. Most importantly, it was better than doing what Roman wanted.

For a second, there was silence. Then she poked his shoulder hard. “Come on, don’t be so fucking stubborn. I know your back must be hurting.”

He scowled. _Bloody know-it-all,_ he thought. “It is not,” he muttered.

“Then why do you complain about it all the time?” she said archly.

He opened his eyes and glared at her. “Go back to bed, Roman. I’ve had enough of your nugshit.”

She stared stonily at him. Then, to his surprise, she started to climb onto the couch.

He hastily tried to shuffle away from her, but she doggedly settled herself over his hips. He grabbed her hips and started trying to lift her off. “Bird, quit it—” 

She untied her robe and opened it, and Samson stopped breathing: she was naked under the robe. Naked, no panties, no bra, her dusky little nipples hard… 

His cock pulsed, and his mouth was flooded with a rush of saliva. Infuriated by his own traitorous body _and_ at Roman for making him this way, he gripped her bare hip and tried to push her away. 

She pulled his hand away and placed it on her breast. “Come upstairs,” she said. 

Her nipple was a perfect taut little bud. He roughly kneaded her breast, then twisted her nipple suddenly, wanting to hurt her and make her purr at the same time.

She gasped and arched into his hand, then fisted her hand in his hair and pulled his head back, and Samson burst out a groan: her mouth was suddenly on his neck, her teeth nipping at his skin and sending jolts of pain and pleasure from his throat down to his groin. She nipped the base of his throat then started to suck, and for a moment, Samson let himself enjoy it. He wasn’t giving in, mind — he was just… letting himself enjoy this for a second before pushing her away. 

She sucked hard at his skin and started rubbing his cock through his breeches, and he groaned and lifted his hips. “You bitch…” he moaned.

“Come upstairs,” she whispered, and she bit the side of his neck. 

He jolted at the pain, then gasped with pleasure as she squeezed his cock through his breeches. Then she was grabbing his hand again and pulling it between her legs, making him touch her wet curls– 

She pressed his fingers into her folds, and a red-hot roar of lust tore through his body. She was sopping wet and spreading herself over his fingers, and he wanted her so badly that it pissed him off. 

She groaned and undulated shamelessly over his hand, and Samson tried — rather feebly — to pull his hand away. “Not here,” he hissed.

She tightened her grip on his wrist and continued to rub herself against his fingers, and Samson stared at the meeting point of her pussy and his hand for a second before forcing his eyes back to her face. “I said not here,” he complained, and he tried to pull his hand away again. “Get off.”

She dug her nails into his wrist. “Make me,” she breathed.

_Make me._ Her provocative words, these words she said on purpose when she was trying to rile him into roughing her up... Something hot and angry and wild suddenly snapped inside of him.

He wrested his hand away from her and grabbed her by the throat, and her lips fell open in a gasp. She clawed at his wrist and tilted her hips down toward his groin, but Samson didn’t let her make contact; with his hand at her throat, he clumsily forced her off of his lap until they were both standing up.

He released her throat to grip her chin instead. “Get upstairs,” he bit off.

She curled her lip. “What happened to ‘I’m not going upstairs’?”

He lifted her chin higher. “If you’re going to rub yourself on me like a bloody cat in heat, I’m not letting you do it down here.”

She laughed mockingly. “ _Let_ me? Like you can tell me what to do.”

He tightened his grip on her chin — enough that it had to be hurting her — then squeezed her buttcheek in his other hand. “Get upstairs, Bird,” he snarled. “I’m sick of hearing it.”

“No,” she said belligerently. “I want to fuck down here.”

He spanked her suddenly, satisfied when she jolted and gasped. “Get upstairs,” he commanded.

“I said no,” she spat.

He dug his fingers harshly into her buttock until she gasped in pain. “Then I’ll just have to take you upstairs,” he hissed. Without warning, he bent down and hefted her over his shoulder in an undignified carry.

She squawked, then thumped his back as he made his way to the stairs. “Hey! Put me down—”

He spanked her upraised ass. “Shut it, Bird,” he ordered. He began carrying her up the stairs, and he was secretly pleased when he realized that carrying her was easier than it had been a couple months ago before he started sleeping in her house. 

_Must be those three square meals Orana makes,_ he thought idly. Then, just for the hell of it, he spanked Roman’s ass again.

She yelped, then thumped his back. “You’re such a fucking asshole,” she hissed.

He huffed, and without replying, he flipped up the hem of her robe and pressed the tips of his fingers into her pussy. 

She jolted and gasped, and Samson smirked, satisfied at having found a way to shut her up. He continued to caress her slick folds as they ascended the stairs, and by the time he was stepping into Roman’s open bedroom, she was breathing hard over his shoulder. 

Monty was resting his chin on his paws in front of the fireplace. When Samson and Roman came in, he sat up attentively. 

“Go to the washroom,” Samson ordered, and he unceremoniously dumped Roman onto the bed. He still wasn’t used to having the mabari stand witness when he and Roman were doing the deed. 

Monty dutifully trotted away, and Roman struggled to sit up and push her hair out of her face. “Don’t tell him what to do,” she snapped. “He’s—”

“Shut the fuck up,” Samson said coldly. He kicked the bedroom door shut, then started unlacing his breeches. 

Roman leaned back on her elbows and sneered at him. “Look at you, the big strong boy throwing me around. You want to shut me up, hm? How’re you going to do that?”

His blood roared at her taunting tone. He pulled his throbbing cock out of his breeches and stalked toward the bed, then crawled between her legs and wrapped his fingers around her throat.

He pushed her down so her back was flush to the bed, then started rubbing his cock between her legs. Her lips parted on a moan, and the sound of it made his blood thrill even more. 

She thrust her hips toward him, and Samson squeezed her throat. “I’m going to fuck your mouth, and you’re going to like it,” he snarled. “You’re going to like it so much that you’re going to rub your pussy until you come with my knob in your throat.”

She mewled and jerked her hips, pressing her sleek heat against his cock. Overcome with the pleasure and the heat of her, he leaned in and kissed her hard. 

She parted her lips and licked his tongue, then bit his lower lip, and he grunted as the sharpness of her teeth sent yet another tantalizing pulse of pleasure pounding to his cock. He shoved his tongue ruthlessly into her mouth for a moment before pulling away, then crawled over her body until he was straddling her. 

He lifted her chin with one hand. “Open your fucking mouth,” he snapped. 

“Fuck you,” she breathed, and she obediently opened her mouth.

Without any hesitation, he leaned forward and slid his cock between her lips. She suckled the head of his cock, and a jolt of ecstasy tore its way from his groin up to his throat in a helpless gasp. 

He curled his hips toward her and grabbed her hand. “Touch yourself,” he rasped.

She pulled her hand out of his grip and reached between her legs, and he watched raptly as her eyelids fluttered with pleasure. Soon she was writhing beneath him, her lips a tight suction on his shaft, and Samson thrust into her mouth with greater zeal as his pleasure rose in time with her own. 

A breathless minute later, she released his cock to cry out in climax, and Samson greedily watched the pleasure twisting her pretty face before taking hold of his cock. “I said to come with my knob in your throat,” he snarled, and he pushed his cock toward her lips.

She eagerly lifted her head to take him deep, and he grunted and thrust into her mouth as she moaned her pleasure around his cock. When the shuddering of her climax had stilled, he finally pulled his length from between her lips.

He crawled off of her and kneeled between her legs again, then ruthlessly looped her knees over his arms and planted his palms on either side of her hips. “I’m going to fuck your brains out,” he gasped, and he plunged himself inside of her.

She cried out, a hoarse and guttural cry of pleasure, and Samson slammed into her in a rough and mindless rhythm, riled almost beyond reason by her taunting and his anger and the beautiful lanky length of her naked body beneath him. Her fingers were digging into his forearms, her nails biting into her skin with little pricks of pain that only served to enhance his ecstasy, and as his pleasure continued to rise, he dipped his head down and took her nipple in his mouth.

He suckled hard, hard enough to bruise her flesh, and Roman arched beneath him as best she could despite the constraints of her legs over his arms. “F-fuck!” she cried. “Fuck, fuck, come on, fuck me hard…”

He slammed into her even harder, so hard that he would have sworn it would hurt her if not for the rapture that was twisting her face. She moaned and scraped his arms, and he gasped against her chest, and when his climax suddenly crashed over him, he bit her nipple. 

She keened with pleasure and writhed beneath him. “Fuck yes,” she sobbed. 

He didn’t reply, too busy gasping and thrusting jerkily into her as he came. Then, in a final fit of spite, he pulled out of her and thrust against her belly instead.

A few thick white spurts landed on her belly, and Roman twisted her hips. “You asshole,” she whined.

He didn’t reply, focused instead on catching his breath. When his heart had slowed to a less-than-frantic pulse, he sat back on his heels and smirked at her. “Serves you right,” he said.

She shot him a dirty look, and Samson smiled more widely at her, feeling oddly at peace. Roman looked so thoroughly spent, and her body bore the obvious marks of his work: his toothmarks on her breast, his semen on her belly, her own wetness smeared on the insides of her thighs and on the bed. For some reason, seeing her look this way made him feel more relaxed than he’d felt all day.

He pulled off his shirt and flopped down on the bed beside her. “I guess I’ll stay here and get some sleep,” he said.

She huffed and sat up. “Whatever. Do what you want, I don’t care.” She slid off of the bed and went to the washroom to clean up, and Monty trotted out of the washroom. 

Samson hastily tucked his cock back into his breeches, then gave Monty a sheepish look. “Sorry about before,” he muttered. “She just… she drives me up the wall sometimes.”

Monty wagged his tail and gave him a big canine grin, and Samson smiled faintly at the mabari before shuffling under the blankets. When Roman emerged from the washroom a couple of minutes later, Samson was glad to note that she was wearing her usual slight frown instead of an angry one.

She took her robe off and hung it on her painted changing screen, then put out the bedside lamp and crawled under the blankets. She settled on her back beside him, and as they lay there side-by-side, not talking nor touching, Samson began to wonder if he should say something.

Roman spoke first. “You’re not a coward,” she said quietly.

His heart flipped. He didn’t reply, unsure what to say. After all, he wasn’t totally sure that he _wasn’t_ one.

She spoke again, and her tone was a little harder this time. “I don’t think you’re a fucking coward, Samson.”

“Then why’d you call me one?” he said.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I was... mad.”

“You’re always mad,” he pointed out.

“Would you–” She broke off, then exhaled sharply and sat up on her elbow to look down at him. “I didn’t mean it, okay? Sometimes shit just comes out of my mouth and I – I didn’t fucking mean it. You’re not a coward.”

“You still think I need to pick a side, though,” he said.

She was quiet for a moment. Then she laid down and rolled onto her side facing away from him. “I didn’t think it would be so fucking hard to know which one you’d pick,” she said. 

He gazed morosely at her naked shoulder blade. She wasn’t wrong; he had no real reason to side with the Templars, after all. It wasn’t like he’d joined them because he believed in their cause. Really, he had every reason to hate them — or not the Templars per se, but the Chantry’s control over them. Whether Roman saw it or not, the Chantry controlled the Templars just as much as they controlled the mages. The leashes they used were just of a different kind. 

Really, if it came down to a war between the Templars and the mages, there was no reason for Samson to side with the Templars. He just wished… 

He sighed. Honestly, he sort of wished he could be a Templar without joining the Order again. If he could just get his hands on some real lyrium, the real good blue stuff so he could have his Templar powers back, then he’d be healthy and strong again. He could walk through this city with his head held high, and he could fight back when anyone tried to beat him down. And he could use his powers for a good purpose, too — to be the kind of Templar that Roman would tolerate: the kind of Templar who stepped in to stop the abominations and to talk the scared mages down from doing stupid things. 

If he had his Templar powers back, he’d be able to do something if Roman became an abomination. Maybe he’d be able to stop her or calm her down so she didn’t need to die.

His gut writhed. _Stop it,_ he thought sternly. There was no point thinking about this any further; it was all a pipe dream. There was no way he would get his hands on real lyrium again. 

He gazed at Roman’s naked spine with an aching heart. Then he rolled toward her and pulled her back against his chest. 

He hugged her around her waist, and she _tsk_ ed. “You’re squeezing me.” 

“Yeah,” he said huskily.

They laid together in silence for a moment, her spine flush to his chest and his knees tucked behind hers. Then Samson spoke quietly into the dark. “I know you don’t want a war, Bird.”

She scoffed. “Obviously.”

He didn’t reply. A minute later, she spoke again. “I don’t get in fights because I want to, you know.”

He frowned slightly. “Then why’re you always fighting all the time?”

“I’m not the one picking the fucking fights,” she snapped. “The whole world keeps picking fights with _me_.” Her voice cracked, and Samson felt her body tensing in his arms. 

His throat started to ache. He swallowed and hugged her harder, and she wiggled her shoulders slightly. “You’re crushing me,” she complained.

Her voice was thick with tears. Samson closed his stinging eyes. “Shut up, Bird,” he whispered, and he kept hugging her.

She sniffled quietly, and Samson held her in silence until her body started to relax. When she spoke again, her voice was hard, as though to make up for her tears. “I just want a fucking moment of peace. Just a fucking second of calm. That’s what I really want.”

He breathed quietly in the ensuing silence. Her hair smelled like vanilla and almond and sweat, and her skin was soft against his chest. The room was dark and her sheets were warm, and the only sounds were his breathing and the soft rumble of Monty snoring on the carpet by the fireplace. 

“It’s pretty calm right now,” Samson murmured.

For a long moment, she said nothing. Then she pulled his hand away from her midriff. 

She twined her fingers with his, and a nearly-painful spear of tenderness pierced his chest. She was such a pain in the ass, fighting with him one second and making him angry-fuck her the next, then being just a little bit sweet like this and making him feel bad for fighting with her in the first place… 

_Bloody damn bird,_ he thought. She was fierce and angry and so fucking vulnerable, and Samson wished he could do something to save her from herself. If only he could be a Templar without actually joining the Order again. If only he could get access to some proper lyrium again…

His guts were knotted with longing. He closed his eyes and inhaled the scent of her hair, and eventually he fell into an uneasy sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am [Pikapeppa, your faithful writer,](https://pikapeppa.tumblr.com/) and your wonderful artist and creator of Romie Hawke is [Schoute!](https://schoute.tumblr.com/) xoxo


	12. Trash

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Samson/Roman Satinalia special! Happy holidays, everyone.

Roman gazed balefully at the entrance to the Hanged Man. The usual tavern racket was way louder than usual — so much so that she could hear the music and laughter and singing emanating through the door. 

She didn’t want to go inside tonight. She usually liked coming here, insofar as she liked being anywhere in Lowtown. But tonight, the Hanged Man was somewhere that Roman would rather have avoided. 

She couldn’t avoid it, though, not without hurting Varric’s feelings. She gritted her teeth, then finally pushed through the door. 

The noise and heat hit her like a tidal wave. The Hanged Man was packed with at least fifty more people than usual, and their laughter was more boisterous and drunk than Roman was accustomed to hearing. The troupe of musicians in the corner was louder and livelier than usual, playing a cheerful driving song that was, unfortunately, prompting people to dance — very badly, by Roman’s estimation, not that she was an expert dancer herself or anything. It was smelly in here too, like hot cider and roasted meat and sweat from all the people dancing, and Roman wrinkled her nose as she slunk over to the bar.

The bar, too, was more crowded than usual with people clamouring for attention. Luckily, Roman was enough of a fixture here that one hard look had the bartender hurrying over. “Champion!” he panted. “Er, I mean, Miz Hawke, um—” 

She cut him off. “Two fingers of whiskey,” she said. She glanced around at the writhing bodies in the tavern, then turned back to the bartender. “Make it three.” 

The bartender nodded, and a long minute later, he slid a tumbler along the bar. “Happy Satinalia,” he yelled over the noise. 

She nodded brusquely and left him a gold royal for a tip, then gulped down her drink in two big swallows before looking around the room more carefully. Now where the fuck was Varric?

She didn’t bother looking at the dance floor; Varric was about as fond of dancing as she was. She scanned the tables, and when she finally spotted him, she couldn’t help but smirk.

He was sitting at the head of a long rectangular table toward the back of the room, in the comfortable padded armchair that usually sat in his suite at the back of the Hanged Man. He was overseeing a game of wicked grace, looking comfortable and happy and giving the distinct impression of being the man in charge.

_He kind of is,_ she thought. _He’s hosting this big fucking party, after all._ Ever since the Arishok had sacked the city three years ago, Varric had started sponsoring a Satinalia party at the Hanged Man. The first one had been to celebrate the reopening of the Hanged Man, seeing as it had been partially destroyed by the qunari. But for the following two years after, he’d continued to host these Satinalia parties every year, paying for the food and the drinks and the entertainment — a small fortune, given how much the greedy residents of Kirkwall could eat and drink.

“Why do you do this?” Roman had asked him one year. 

“Why not?” he replied. “It makes people happy. We can always use a little happy around here, especially in Lowtown.”

Roman curled her lip. “It’s not like it makes a difference. They’ll eat all your food and drink all your booze today, then go back to talking shit about you behind your back tomorrow.”

Varric shot her a sympathetic look and patted her elbow. “It’s one night, Hawke. A night where we can forget all that shit and have a good time. You should try to join in.”

She clicked her tongue in annoyance, and Varric chuckled. “Besides, if you’re worried about me losing money, don’t. I’ve got a special fund I keep specifically for this party, and you know what it’s made up of?”

“What?” she said suspiciously.

His smile widened. “Winnings from wicked grace.”

Roman gave him an incredulous look. “You pay for all of this with your winnings from wicked grace?”

He leaned back in his chair and folded his hands over his belly. “What can I say? I’m a lucky guy.”

Roman actually laughed at that, and since then, she hadn’t questioned him about throwing this party every year. Besides, it was nice to see Varric looking all happy indoors, rather than looking all disgruntled while trampling around the fucking countryside with her.

She slunk through the crowds toward him. “I’m here,” she yelled. 

He looked up from his cards and smiled. “Hawke,” he yelled back, and he waved for her to join the table. “Come on, sit down, I’ll deal you in the next round.” 

She shook her head; she didn’t know anyone sitting at the table right now, and she wasn’t in the mood to make chit-chat with strangers. “Just wanted you to see I’m here. And now that I’ve shown my face, I’m going home,” she said, only half-jokingly.

Varric smiled. “Ha ha. Seriously though, get some food, enjoy yourself, find the others. I think the whole crew is here except for Blondie and Choir Boy.” 

She nodded. Of course Sebastian wasn’t here, since he never did anything involving booze or fun. And Anders was probably stuck at the clinic in Darktown.

_I wonder if Samson is here,_ she thought. Then again, she wasn’t sure he was even going to come. He’d shown up at Varric’s Satinalia party only once in the past three years, so there was no guarantee he would come this time. Maybe he’d just gone straight to Roman’s mansion to go to sleep. 

_Lucky asshole,_ she thought. “I’m stealing this,” she said to Varric, and she took his mostly-full stein of lager from the table. 

He waved affably, and Roman made her way toward the nearest wall, intent on getting out of the crowd. But the revelry in the tavern was so uncontained that by the time she was pressed against the wall away from the worst of the people, a big mouthful’s worth of lager had gotten sloshed over her hand and onto her skirt. 

“Fuck’s sake,” she muttered. She gulped down the drink as quickly as possible, then swiftly placed the empty stein on a passing waitress’s tray and grabbed a fresh drink from the tray at the same time. 

She sniffed the drink, and a faint aching feeling tugged at her ribs. The stein contained mulled wine, and the distinct Ferelden smell made her feel both homesick and resentful at the same time — kind of like being at this party made her feel.

Roman had never been fond of parties. The cheerfulness and the jollity always made her feel as though there was something wrong with her. The bigger the party, the more isolated she felt, like the divide between her own moodiness and other people’s carefree cheer was even more stark and glaring, and she had never known how to bridge that divide — not that she really wanted to, since most people were shit and she hated small talk. 

Still, sometimes she wondered what it would be like to have a gift with people, like Varric had: to be comfortable around people, to see the good in them and chat with them and not be braced any second for them to suddenly decide that she was an evil piece of shit for being an apostate with a temper and a foul mouth that even sailors would cringe away from.

She took a big gulp of mulled wine, and the aching feeling in her rib cage swelled even more. Then someone sidled up beside her — someone she wouldn’t have expected to seek her company willingly. 

Fenris nodded politely. “Hawke,” he said.

She nodded in return. “Surprised to see you here,” she said.

“Varric insisted,” Fenris said dryly.

Roman scoffed. “Yeah, he’s pretty fucking persuasive.”

“That he is,” Fenris said, and he took a sip of his wine — normal, non-mulled wine.

Roman curiously eyed his glass. “Is that that Aggregio shit you like?”

He shook his head. “It’s Orlesian. A bit on the vinegar-y side, but I will take what I can get.” He gave her an odd look. “Besides, they don’t import goods from Tevinter here.”

She scoffed and swirled her drink. “Not legally, maybe. You should ask Varric to hook you up, get you some black-market fancy wine. He knows people.”

Fenris huffed in amusement. “That is an understatement. That dwarf knows everyone and their mother.”

Roman smirked at him, and she was surprised to find him smirking as well. Then she was surprised to find herself feeling this relaxed in Fenris’s company. They usually spent any time together walking on eggshells to avoid falling into the kinds of shouting matches he and Anders usually had. He must be pretty fucking drunk. 

She glanced down at her half-empty stein of mulled wine. Then again, she was pretty tipsy already too.

She took another deep drink, and Fenris sipped his wine as well. Then Aveline joined them. “Fenris, Hawke,” she said with an officious little nod. “Happy Satinalia.”

“And to you,” Fenris said. Then he raised an eyebrow. “I’m surprised to see the captain of the guard here.”

“I’m here for Varric, as you well know,” Aveline said testily. “Although I suppose it doesn’t hurt to have a member of the city guard here to keep the peace. Just in case.” She frowned at the boisterous patrons in the room.

Roman rolled her eyes. “Don’t fucking bother. If you get involved in any fights here, you’ll only make things worse.”

“She’s got a point,” Fenris said. “It would be prudent for you to not get involved.”

Aveline pursed her lips, then sighed. “Donnic said the same thing,” she admitted.

“He is a wise man,” Fenris said.

Aveline shot him a resentful look. “You’re only saying that because he goes to your house every week to play cards.”

Fenris shrugged. “If you wish to rejoin our games, take it up with your husband, not with me.”

Aveline _harrumph_ ed and folded her arms, and Roman hid her smirk in her stein. Then Isabela and a pink-cheeked Merrill pushed their way through the crowd. 

“Ooh, hello everyone!” Merill said breathlessly. “Isabela was teaching me an Orlesian two-step! It’s very hard work though, a lot more hip twirling than I would have thought.”

_Hip twirling?_ Roman thought. She didn’t think that Orlesian dances were known for their hip action. She glanced at Isabela, who winked at her. 

Merrill was looking around the tavern with wide eyes. “I’m so thirsty. I wonder if I can get a glass of water here?”

“Not likely, kitten,” Isabela said. “But here.” She plucked a stein from a passing tray and sniffed it, then handed it to Merrill. “Cider. Not water, but close enough.”

Merill beamed at her, then took a big gulp of cider, and Fenris narrowed his eyes. “You ought to eat something,” he warned.

Merrill lowered the stein and gave him a chiding look. “Don’t fuss, Fenris. I can hold my liquor, you know.” 

Fenris pursed his lips and looked away, and Isabela chuckled. “Now children, don’t fight, just dance. Who’s going to dance with me next?” She tilted her head cheekily at Aveline. “What about you, big girl? Care to dance?”

Aveline frowned. “Are you making fun of me?”

Isabela grinned. “No, actually. Why? Are you a bad dancer?”

“I never said that,” Aveline said — defensively enough that Roman knew she must be a terrible dancer.

“It’s all right if you are,” Isabela said soothingly. “If you’re dancing with me, nobody will be looking at you anyway.”

“I’m not dancing with you,” Aveline said stiffly.

Isabela sighed. “Fine, fine. What about you, Hawke?”

“Not a fucking chance,” Roman said, and she finished off her mulled wine.

“Oh come on,” Isabela coaxed. “I can sense that you have moves.”

Roman sardonically lifted her eyebrow. “Ask me again and the only moves I’ll make are toward the fucking door.”

Isabela laughed. “All right, sweet thing, no need to get sassy.” Then, finally, she gave Fenris a slow and salacious smile.

He lowered his mostly-empty glass. “What?”

“What about you?” she said silkily. “Care to dance?”

Fenris shook his head. “I don’t dance.”

“Not even with me?” Isabela simpered.

“No, Isabela,” he said patiently. “Not even with you.”

She sauntered right up to him and trailed her finger down his chest. “How much do you want to bet that I can change your mind?”

Fenris raised an eyebrow, and Aveline stepped away. “All right, I’m going, er, elsewhere.”

“Me too,” Roman drawled.

“Me too!” Merrill said with a nervous giggle. They all dispersed, Aveline toward the opposite side of the room and Merrill toward Varric’s table and Roman back toward the bar, all of them chased by Isabela’s husky laugh. 

Roman carefully pushed her way through the crowd at the bar and held up three fingers. A moment later, the bartender handed her a tumbler of whiskey, and she deftly flicked him another gold royal for a tip, which he caught in mid-air with a smile.

A deep, sarcastic voice spoke behind her — one she didn’t recognize right away. “Ain’t that flush of you, _Champion_." 

She turned around and immediately stiffened. The person speaking to her was a tall and pasty fellow that she instantly recognized as one of Meredith’s more loyal Templars, accompanied by a shorter man who was also a Templar, both apparently on shore leave. 

An instinctive flush of anger bloomed in her gut, but she forced herself to ignore it. She might be half-drunk, but she was sober enough to know that getting in a fight with Templars at Varric’s party would be a shitty thing to do.

“Yeah, it was,” she said. “Fuck off and enjoy the party.” She started to step around the Templars, but they shifted in front of her.

Roman gave the taller Templar a flat look. “Get the fuck out of my way.”

Unfortunately, he didn’t listen; instead, he and his crony stepped closer. “We heard you’re a blood mage,” he growled.

The anger in her gut curdled, and she lifted her chin. “You heard that, huh?”

“Yeah,” the shorter Templar said. “So? It true?”

She laughed nastily. “You think I’d tell _you_ if it was? How fucking stupid are you?” She tilted her head. “Oh wait, you’re Templars. Never mind, I answered my own question.”

The shorter Templar curled his lip and took a step toward her, and she tensed her fists, ready to hit him if he took another step. She wouldn’t use magic, not during this party, but she had no fucking qualms about punching someone in the face. 

The shorter Templar stepped even closer, and Roman bared her teeth in a snarl. But before she could raise her hand to strike, another voice interrupted. “Evening, fellas. Is there a problem ‘ere?”

_Samson,_ Roman thought, and her shoulders loosened. He was standing just behind her with one hand tucked in his pocket and the other holding a stein, and his lips were curled in a polite smile — or seemingly polite, at least, though Roman could see the hint of mockery at the corners of his lips. 

The Templars were looking at Samson now instead of her, and the taller one sneered. “Samson. The fuck are you doing here?”

“Having a drink, same as you,” he said, and he lifted his stein. “Happy tidings and all that.”

The shorter Templar snorted, and the taller one folded his arms and jerked his head at Roman. “You friends with this apostate cunt or something? That why you’re stepping in for her?”

Roman swelled with anger. “Cunt?” she snarled, and she took a step toward the taller Templar. “Who the fuck are you calling a—” 

Samson grabbed her arm, and the shorter Templar laughed. “Oh ho, look at ‘im, putting the brakes on mages like he thinks he’s still a Templar.”

Roman wrested her arm away from Samson and glared at him, but he wasn't looking at her; he was looking at the two Templars still, and there was a quizzical look on his face now. “Does Cullen know you’re here?” he said.

The taller Templar went tellingly still, and the shorter one’s face crumpled into a scowl. “What’d you say?”

Samson shrugged and tucked his free hand back in his pocket. “Just askin’ if Cullen knows you’re here. Last I heard, the Knight-Captain had forbidden all of you from going to the Hanged Man or the Blooming Rose on your nights off.” He smirked. “Too much of a distraction, I heard.”

The shorter Templar stared at Samson. “How the fuck d’you know—”

The taller one elbowed him. “Shut it, you dimwit,” he hissed. He shot Samson and Roman a venomous look, then pulled his crony toward the door, and a moment later, they were gone.

Samson turned to her with a half-smile. “Bird,” he said, and he sipped from his stein.

She tutted. “I was handling that just fine without your help,” she said, but without any real heat. She hadn’t expected him to come, and frankly, it was kind of a nice surprise that he was here. He was wearing a rust-red shirt that was unbuttoned partway down his chest so she could see his chest hair, and… okay, fine, if she was being totally honest — an honesty she would entirely attribute to the mulled wine — he looked pretty attractive.

She took a gulp of her whiskey, then squinted at his chest. His shirt wasn’t unbuttoned, actually; he was just missing a couple of buttons. 

“Something wrong?” he said.

She scoffed and plucked at his open shirt. “You look sloppy as fuck.”

He twisted his lips ruefully. “Yeah. Nicest shirt I’ve got, if you can believe it.” 

“You should just let me buy you something new,” she said, for the umpteenth time. “Then you don’t have to go around looking like shit.”

“If I look like shit, why’re you staring?” he asked.

She tore her eyes away from his chest and scowled at him. “I’m not staring.”

“Sure you are,” he said. “It’s all right, Bird. You look good too.” His eyes travelled from her low-necked top to her knee-length skirt, and he smirked. “There’s a stain on your skirt.”

She rolled her eyes. “I know. Someone made me spill my fucking beer.”

“And you’re nagging me about being sloppy?” he said archly.

She gestured emphatically at her skirt. “This was an accident! _You_ showed up looking like this!”

“Give me credit, will you? I tried,” he said plaintively.

She raised a skeptical eyebrow. “You did not. You didn’t even shave. You’re all whiskery.”

He _tsk_ ed. “You and the whiskers. I can’t figure out if you like them or not.”

“They look good,” she said without thinking. “They feel like shit on my skin.” Oops, that was more candid than she’d intended. 

She frowned resentfully at her half-empty tumbler, and Samson chuckled — a rough little _heh-heh-heh_ that lifted an annoying buzzing sensation between her legs. “That doesn’t help me decide whether to shave the bloody whiskers off or not,” he said.

She shrugged and looked away from him. “Just do what you want. It’s your face. I don’t care what you do.”

He sighed and shifted a little closer to her — close enough that their arms were touching. “You’re a bloody pain in the ass, you know that?”

She clicked her tongue. “Ah, fuck you, too.” She tapped her tumbler to his stein and finished off her drink.

He grinned at her, then took a gulp from his stein before speaking again. “You’re in a good mood. Having a nice time then, eh?”

“Not really,” she said. “I don’t like parties.” 

“Me neither,” he said. “Never really felt right when I was at them. Always got the feelin’ like there was something I wasn’t quite in on, even if I was right in the thick of it.”

She looked at him in surprise. That was exactly how she’d always felt at parties.

He met her eye, then rubbed a hand over his chin. “What? Something on my face?”

“If you don’t like parties, why did you come to this one?” she asked.

He shrugged. “I knew you had to come, for Tethras. Thought I’d keep you company.” He gave her a crooked little smile. “Misery loves company, or so they say, and I figured you’d be pretty bloody miserable.” He drank from the stein, and Roman watched the bobbing of his throat as he swallowed. 

He lowered the stein and looked at her, then lifted his eyebrow. “What—”

She grabbed his shirt and dragged him into a kiss. 

He grunted in surprise and wrapped his arm around her waist, and Roman twined her tongue with his for a moment before pushing him away. “Your face is scratchy,” she said.

He stared at her stupidly for a second, his half-bared chest rising and falling as he panted for breath. Then a broad smile stretched across his face. “You bloody minx,” he said.

She smirked. Then a tall burly man bumped into her shoulder hard. 

She stumbled slightly, annoyed but unfazed; this fucking tavern was way too crowded, after all. A second later, however, the man’s disparaging tone made it clear that the bump was definitely not an accident. “Look at this,” he drawled. “The Champion’s a whore for the beggar.” He bared his yellowed teeth at her in a semblance of a grin. “Times so desperate that you’ve got to fuck the trash on the street?”

A ringing rage suddenly burst in her ears. Without thinking, she swung her empty tumbler up and smashed it across the burly asshole’s face. 

“Roman!” Samson barked.

The man stumbled back with a howl of pain, and the people around them cried out in shock and tried to shuffle away. Roman ignored them and took a threatening step toward the burly asshole, and Samson grabbed her arm. 

“Roman, stop,” he hissed. 

She twisted out of his grip. “He said you’re trash,” she yelled. “You’re not fucking trash. _He’s_ the trash.”

Samson opened his mouth, but before he could reply, the burly man’s big hand squeezed her shoulder in a painful grip. “You fucking bitch—”

She viciously clawed at his hand, and when he whipped his hand back with a yelp, she raised the now-cracked tumbler, ready to smash it across his face a second time. 

“Stop!” Aveline shouted. She pushed through the crowd and stepped between Roman and the burly man. “Hawke, what’s happening here?”

“She hit me in the face, that fucking bitch!” the burly man bleated. 

Roman snarled and took another threatening step toward him, but Aveline held up a hand. “Enough,” she said loudly, and she turned toward the burly man. “Outside, now. Unless you want to come with me to the holding cells.” 

“Yeah, get the fuck out of here,” Roman spat. “If I see your fucking face again—”

Samson grabbed her hand and pried the tumbler from her fingers. “Come on,” he said in exasperation, and he started pulling her away toward the back of the tavern. 

She tried to pull her hand out of his grip. “What are you doing? Let me go!” 

“Getting you somewhere quiet to calm down,” he gritted.

“I _am_ calm,” she yelled. “It’s that asshole who isn’t calm! You heard him, he fucking started it!” 

Samson didn’t reply, and he didn’t let go of her hand. He kept pulling her through the tavern, out of the main room with its music and its noise and through to the inn area at the back, which was much quieter. 

She sighed loudly and smacked his arm. “Let me go. I’m fucking calm.”

“No,” he said, and he kept tugging her through the corridors until they were in a secluded back corner of the inn, where a few dilapidated crates and barrels sat there waiting to either be repaired or thrown away. 

Samson finally released her hand and folded his arms. “I told you not to get into fucking fights for me.”

She glared at him. How dare he scowl at her like _he_ was the angry one? “It wasn’t my fault. He was looking to start a fight!”

“You made the fight happen,” he accused.

“I did not!” she retorted.

He gave her a chiding look. “You hit him with a bloody tumbler, Bird.”

“You’re not fucking trash!” she yelled.

He wilted and rubbed his forehead. “Bloody Maker’s balls…”

“You’re not trash,” she railed. “There’s nothing wrong with you. He doesn’t even fucking know you, how can he just go around—”

Samson suddenly clasped her neck in his hands and pinned her against the wall, and Roman gasped at the impact of her back striking the wall. “You’re lookin’ for an excuse to fight,” he said roughly. “You say you’re not, but you are.”

She glowered at him, stung by the injustice of this accusation. “I am not,” she retorted. “I don’t _want_ to — I don’t want to be this way! You think I like being all — fucking pissed all the time?” 

“That’s not what I’m saying. I just…” He sighed. “Maker, I don’t know what I’m saying. I just… don’t want you to get in fucking fights for me. I can fight for myself.”

“But you don’t,” she said. “You don’t fight when they pick on you, and I hate it.”

His eyebrows rose, and he released her neck. “Right, right. Because I’m a coward, right?”

Her frustration ratcheted higher. “You’re not a fucking coward!” she shouted. “You’re — there’s nothing wrong with you!”

He scoffed and folded his arms. “Are you blind or something? I’m a lyrium-addicted beggar with missing buttons on my best bloody shirt.”

She glared viciously at him and prodded his half-bared chest. “There’s nothing wrong with you that isn’t wrong with me too. If you’re fucking trash, then so am I.”

He stared at her without speaking, and Roman’s belly twisted; his expression was softening from anger into something far softer and more unnerving.

She curled her lip. “What the fuck are you looking at me like that for?”

A little smile lifted the corners of his lips. “That was almost romantic, Bird.”

She recoiled slightly, then shoved his abs. “Don’t be fucking stupid. It was not.”

He didn’t move. “It was, sort of. You going to be giving me roses in the moonlight next?”

His smile was broad and his tone was playful now, and Roman’s annoyance swelled, along with the hot feeling in her cheeks. “Shut the fuck up,” she said, and she shoved him again.

He grabbed her wrist and pinned it back against the wall, and a sudden hot rush of lust flooded between her legs. She twisted her wrist, and Samson stepped closer, close enough that she was trapped against the wall by his body. 

He stroked her cheek with his other hand, and Roman twisted her face away. “Quit it,” she snapped.

He gripped her jaw and turned her face to look at him, and her heart thudded between her legs at the force of his hand on her jaw. She slipped her free hand into his open shirt and twisted his nipple, and he gasped in pain and released her jaw. 

His hand on her wrist only tightened, however, and Roman gasped with excitement at the firmness of his fingers around her wrist. Then he captured her other hand and forced it back against the wall as well. 

“Bloody wildcat,” he growled. “Just calm down, will you?”

“Then let me go,” she snapped breathlessly.

He huffed. “See, I don’t think you really want me to.”

“Yes I do,” she said belligerently.

He lifted his eyebrows skeptically. “You sure? Then tell me again to let you go, and I’ll do it. Go on, say it again.”

His tone was taunting, and it was like tossing oil on her flaring temper and her lust. She sneered at him but didn’t speak, and he let out a smug little laugh. “Didn’t think so. I know what you’re really looking for.”

“You don’t know shit,” she snapped.

“Yeah, I do,” he said, and he pressed his hips to hers.

His cock was a hard ridge pressing against the vee of her thighs, and her lips fell open with a gasp. Then Samson pressed his mouth against her ear. “You want me to fuck you,” he whispered. “That’s why you’re wearing this skirt, isn’t it?”

She dragged in a breath and wriggled in his grip, rubbing herself against his groin in the process. “What the fuck are you talking about?” she panted.

“This skirt,” he murmured in her ear. “This is the one you had on when we first fucked in the alley outside.”

His voice was low and sly, and the heat in her cheeks and her abdomen swelled even more. He was right, unfortunately; this was that same skirt, the same one Samson had shoved up before pinning her against the wall to fuck her from behind, and she’d be lying if she hadn’t thought about it when putting it on this evening. She wasn’t very well going to admit that, though.

Unfortunately, it seemed that she didn’t need to; Samson was laughing softly against her ear, that smug and knowing little chuckle that both enraged her and riled her up to a maddening degree. “Aw, you got dressed up for me tonight, eh?” he teased. “That’s romantic too.”

“Fuck you,” she spat. “Fuck you, fuck you, I hate you—”

He released her wrist and slid his palm up along her thigh, and Roman broke off with a convulsive gasp. Then he was rubbing her sex, his fingers sliding against her throbbing pussy through her smalls, and he was talking in her ear once more.

“Don’t be embarrassed, Bird,” he murmured. “I picked out this shirt for you, too.”

His fingers between her legs, his voice in her ear, his whiskers scratching her face… She fucking wanted him, and it was so _annoying_. She gasped in a breath and tried to gather her scrambled thoughts. “You picked the shitty shirt with missing buttons for me? Fuck you,” she moaned.

He laughed softly and pressed his fingers against her clit. “No, you daft idiot. I picked the one in your favourite colour.”

Her heart squeezed, and she scoffed. “Whatever. _You’re_ the idiot.” 

“And you’re a bloody pain in my ass,” he purred. Then, without warning, he pushed the crotch of her smalls aside and slid one finger inside of her.

The unexpected pleasure of his finger drove a cry from her throat. She twisted her free hand in his shirt, and he released her other hand and covered her mouth. “Shh,” he hissed. “Keep your voice down, eh?”

His finger was curling relentlessly inside of her, striking at a spot inside of her that was making her legs feel shaky, and she couldn’t stop herself from moaning against his palm. She thrust her hips eagerly toward his hand, and he exhaled hard.

“Maker’s balls, Bird,” he groaned. “What am I supposed to do with you?”

She twisted her face away from his palm. “Fuck me,” she rasped. “Fuck me right now.”

“Where am I supposed to do that?” he said quietly. “There’s no furniture here.”

“Like that’s ever stopped you before,” she said.

He smiled slowly at her, then suddenly pulled his finger free. Before Roman could protest or say a word, he was lifting her up and depositing her on a dusty barrel at waist-height. 

He roughly reached into her skirt, and she lifted her hips so he could pull her smallclothes off. “If I get a splinter in my ass, you’re helping me get it out,” she threatened.

He shot her a reproving look as he shoved her smallclothes in his pocket. “Look, d’you want to fuck here or not?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Then stop complaining and spread your legs,” he commanded. 

She glared at him as she parted her knees. “Don’t fucking tell me what to do.” 

He gave her a reproachful look as he unbuttoned his trousers, but Roman ignored it; she was too focused on his cock, the thick hard length of it straining against the fabric of his smalls, and now he was pulling his cock out and stroking it with one hand while he stepped closer to her…

She eagerly shifted closer to the edge of the barrel, and Samson’s eyes dropped to her thighs. “Come on, Bird, let me have a look at you,” he breathed. He lifted the edge of her skirt to look at her pussy, and Roman spread her legs wide so he could see her better.

The look on his face grew hungry, and Roman stared at his lustful expression with a growing hunger of her own. “Pervert,” she accused.

He looked up at her and grinned. “Takes one to know one,” he teased. He stepped closer to the barrel and grabbed her hip, then thrust into her hard.

She gasped and jolted, then wiggled closer to the edge of the barrel so he could fuck her deeper, and he groaned and grabbed her thigh. “Put your legs around me,” he urged.

She wrapped her legs around his waist and locked her ankles together at the small of his back. He thrust into her again, and this time she was forced to cry out with pleasure; the edge of the barrel was digging into her ass a bit, but with her legs wrapped around him, it felt like he was striking much deeper inside of her with every thrust. 

He gripped her hip with one hand and the edge of the barrel with the other and slammed his cock inside of her, and Roman moaned again.

“Shut the fuck up, Bird,” he groaned, and he slammed into her again. She gasped and sank her teeth into the side of his neck, and he groaned and thrust into her over and over, rapid deep thrusts that sent ripples of pleasure through her fingers and her toes, and she greedily sucked and bit his neck to stop herself from moaning at how fucking good it felt. 

After a couple of blissful minutes, Samson gasped fitfully and dug his fingers painfully into her thigh, and she grunted against his neck as his cock grew even harder inside of her. He came a moment later, shuddering and painting against her collarbone as he thrust into her a frenzied blur, and Roman savoured the forceful striking thrusts of his cock as he rode out his climax. 

A long moment later, he sighed heavily and nipped her neck, and the feeling of his teeth on her neck sent a little shiver down her spine. He patted her thigh, and she untwined her legs from around his waist with a little grimace. 

“My ass hurts,” she complained. 

He smirked at her as he stepped back and tucked his cock into his trousers. “Sorry,” he said.

“You are not,” she accused. 

“Ah, you’re right, I’m not,” he said unrepentantly, and he helped her down from the barrel. She immediately felt his seed dripping down the inside of her thigh, and she quickly untied the red scarf from around her wrist to wipe it up. 

“Hey, I’ll do that,” Samson said affably, and he reached for the scarf.

She wrinkled her nose at him. “Why?”

“Because I’m a gentleman, o’course,” he said. “Gentlemen clean up their messes.”

His face was lit with a broad shit-eating grin, and Roman couldn’t decide whether she wanted to laugh or to smack him. Instead, she shot him a flat look as she wiped the inside of her thigh. “You really want to be a gentleman? Then you can go down on me.”

His grin fell into a look of surprise. “Eh?”

“I didn’t come,” she said. 

He grimaced. “Oh. Balls. Sorry, Bird.” He eyed her uncertainly. “You… you really want me to go down on you? Now?”

She paused in her wiping and raised her eyebrows. “What, you’ll fuck me at the back of the Hanged Man but you won’t go down on me?”

“It’s not that,” he said hurriedly. “It’s just…” He scrunched his face up a bit. “I already came in you.”

“So?” she said.

“So I’m not really keen to, uh, eat my own cooking, if you get my meaning,” he said.

Roman gave him a withering look. “Are you fucking serious?”

“Yeah…” He sighed and wilted. “You want me to do it anyway, don’t you?”

She clicked her tongue. “You’re the one who was saying you’re a gentleman.” She went back to wiping the inside of her thighs.

Samson rubbed the back of his neck. Then, to her surprise, he kneeled in front of her. “All right, twist my bloody arm,” he grumbled. He pushed her skirt up to her hips, and Roman felt a fresh thrill of heated anticipation pooling between her legs. 

He leaned in and kissed her hip, and her pussy pulsed at the nearness of his mouth. Then he sighed. “Can’t believe I’m doing this,” he muttered, and he drew his tongue along the length of her cleft.

She gasped and sank her fingers into his hair. Despite his reluctance, he was doing just as good a job as he always did: his tongue was circling smoothly around her clit, teasing her with the exact amount of pressure that felt fucking _good_ while making her crave an even firmer touch of his tongue.

She dragged in a shaky breath and rolled her hips toward his mouth. He drew his tongue firmly over her clit, and the firm pressure sent a shock of pleasure through her body.

She gasped and clenched her fingers in his hair. He lapped at her clit again, and she bucked toward his mouth. He reached up and placed his palms on her bare thighs to push them wider apart, and the heat of his hands on her skin sent another thrill of pleasure through her limbs. 

She rocked her hips toward his tongue, and within seconds she was grinding against his mouth, her rapture rising steadily with every smooth hot stroke of his tongue against her swollen clit. She gasped convulsively and pulled his hair, and he growled into her pussy and tugged at her clit with his lips, and she let out a moan. 

He leaned away and shot her a resentful look. “Seriously, Roman, shut up—”

“Don’t fucking stop,” she gasped, and she pulled his head between her legs once more.

He grunted and sealed his lips over her clit, and she shoved the back of her other hand against her mouth to stifle herself, and not a moment too soon: a few blissful licks later, she was shuddering and slumping back against the wall as her rapture rippled from her pulsing clit down to her calves and all the way up to her scalp.

She closed her eyes and leaned her back against the wall, giving the wall all of her weight as the pleasure washed through her limbs. When her climax had finally ebbed away, she dropped her hand away from her mouth and sighed.

Then Samson kissed her and thrust his tongue into her mouth.

“ _Mmph_ ,” she protested, but his tongue was sliding against her own. She poked his belly and bit his tongue, and he pulled away from her.

“See?” he said pointedly. “Doesn’t taste so good, does it?”

She gave him a _shut-the-fuck-up_ look. “Tastes like it always does when I suck you off after you fucked me.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Oh. Yeah, that makes sense.”

She snorted and reached into his pocket to take back her smallclothes. “You really are a fucking idiot,” she told him. She pulled her smalls back on and smoothed out her skirt, then started to sidle past him toward the corridor, but he stopped her with a hand on her hip.

She paused and looked up at him, then frowned; he looked quite serious. “What’s wrong?” she said. 

“Stop getting into fights for me,” he said quietly. “I don’t want you getting into trouble.”

She sighed in annoyance, and he squeezed her hip. “I mean it, Roman. You have to keep your head down more.”

“Are you going to tell the whole world to fuck off and leave me alone, then?” she said archly. “Because if everyone gets off my case, I’d gladly keep my fucking head down.” 

He clicked his tongue wearily, then pecked her on the forehead and gave her butt a little smack. “Forget it, all right? Let’s go get another drink.”

She shot him a resentful look and made her way from their dark abandoned corner back into the nearest corridor, then stopped short in surprise: Isabela was leaning casually against the wall. 

She looked up at them with a knowing grin, and Roman stared at her. “Were you listening in?” she demanded.

“Yes, actually,” Isabela said. 

Roman recoiled. “Why the fuck were you listening in?”

“I was guarding this hallway so you could have a private moment,” Isabela said. “It’s hardly my fault that you make so much noise.”

Roman deflated a bit. “Oh. Fuck.”

Samson rubbed his chin and gave Roman an _I-told-you-so_ look. Roman hunched her shoulders defensively, and Isabela let out a throaty laugh as she approached them. “Don’t look so embarrassed, sweet thing. Having a quick one at the back of a tavern is perfectly natural. We’ve all done it.” 

“Thanks, I guess,” Roman muttered.

Samson eyed Isabela cautiously, then touched his fingers to his forehead in a small salute. “Kind of you to keep an eye out for us, cap’n.”

Isabela raised her eyebrows. “Well well. Captain, you say? Talk dirty to a girl, why don’t you?” She elbowed Roman. “You should invite me to join you next time.”

Roman rolled her eyes. “Maker’s fucking balls,” she complained, and she started walking away.

“That wasn’t a no,” Isabela called after her. 

She shook her head and didn’t reply. A second later, Samson caught up to her. “Er, what was that exactly?”

“Approval from Isabela,” Roman grunted. 

“Really?” Samson said. “That’s, er, nice?”

“Whatever. I don’t need anyone’s approval,” Roman said. But for some reason, she didn’t feel as irate as she would have expected from having Isabela listen in to her and Samson fucking. And Isabela had even been friendly to Samson, which was — well, not unexpected necessarily, because Samson and Isabela had barely ever spoken. But Roman was so accustomed to seeing people treat Samson like a pile of nugshit that witnessing the opposite was… nice.

Yeah, it was nice. The more Roman thought about it, the more she realized that she was actually feeling… pretty good, actually. She was still a little tipsy from the booze, and her damp smallclothes were reminding her of the excellent illicit sex she and Samson had just had at the back of the tavern, and someone other than herself had treated Samson like a person…

_Damn,_ she thought in surprise. Against all odds, she was actually feeling… kind of happy.

She looked up at Samson with a little smile, and his eyebrows jumped up. “What’s with you?”

She shrugged. “Nothing,” she said. “Come on.” They stepped back into the main room of the Hanged Man, and Roman balked for a second; it was somehow even more noisy and crowded and hot than before. The musical troupe in the corner were playing a song with a hard driving beat while the majority of the patrons twirled and spun to the music with varying degrees of coordination and drunkenness. Every few minutes, a howl of laughter and dismay would go up from one of the tables where people were playing cards, and the entire room was scented with mulled wine.

A funny swelling feeling filled her chest. Then Samson leaned in close to her ear. “It’s bloody hopping in here,” he yelled. “I’ll find some drinks, you find us a corner?”

“No,” she yelled back. “Come on.” She grabbed his arm and pulled him into the middle of the crowd.

She ruthlessly pushed her way through the pulsing crowd of bodies until they reached Varric’s table. He was still sitting in pride of place at the head of the table, and the rest of their little crew was sitting with him and playing cards: Fenris and Merrill were on the left side of the table and Anders was on the right, having apparently gotten away from the clinic at last. Aveline was sitting beside him with no cards and her arms petulantly folded, and they all looked up when Roman pushed her way through the crowd. 

Varric smiled. “Hawke! Samson! Have a seat, join us.”

“Thanks,” Roman said, and she poked Anders’s arm. “Move over.”

“Happy Satinalia to you too,” he drawled as he shifted over. “Where’ve you been?”

“Busy,” she said. She pushed Samson down onto the bench beside Anders, then seated herself on the padded right arm of Varric’s chair. 

“Busy doing what?” Isabela said as she sashayed over. 

“None of your fucking business,” Roman said, but with no heat. 

Isabela winked cheekily and sidled around to sit on the other arm of Varric’s chair, and Anders snorted in amusement. “This is rich. Varric, you look like the owner of a harem now.”

Isabela _tsk_ ed. “A harem of two isn’t much of a harem. Merrill, you should come and sit in Varric’s lap to round us out.”

Merrill tittered. “Who, me? Oh no, I couldn’t!”

Anders glanced at Aveline. “What about you, then? You could go on up and sit in Varric’s lap.”

“Over my dead body,” Aveline said flatly.

“Over mine, actually,” Varric said drolly. “I don’t think I could survive all of Aveline’s muscle.”

Merrill, Anders and Isabela laughed, and Aveline smiled faintly. Then Varric tapped Roman’s arm. “Are you and Samson joining in the next round, then?” 

His tone was casual, but his expression was faintly hopeful — the look he usually wore when asking if Roman would play cards with them, even knowing that she was going to say no. 

But today wasn’t a usual day, and Roman wasn’t in a usual mood. She shrugged. “Yeah, deal us in. Right?” She looked askance at Samson.

“I suppose,” he said tentatively. “I, uh, haven’t any coin to bet, though.”

“That’s okay,” Varric assured him. “The elf here hasn’t got any coin, either. He’s just playing on good faith.” He jerked a thumb at Fenris, who sighed and tugged his ear. 

“I’ll win it back next week, I swear it,” he grumbled. 

Varric nodded affably. “Uh-huh. Whatever you say.”

The others chuckled as Fenris _tsk_ ed, and Roman watched contentedly as Samson’s posture relaxed a bit. Then she looked at Varric once more, and an unusual feeling of warmth spread through her chest. He was smiling broadly at her, and Roman knew that he understood the significance of her agreement to play cards.

She shrugged and looked away from him. “Happy Satinalia or whatever,” she muttered.

He chuckled. “You too, Hawke. Now come on, let’s play.”

“We’re all waiting on you,” Anders pointed out.

“All right, all right,” Varric said affably, and he set down a card. “Okay, Daisy, it’s your turn.” 

The round of wicked grace continued, with Anders seeming to have the winning hand. Roman listened quietly as they chatted and teased each other in turn, and she marvelled at the strangeness of the situation — the strangeness of sitting here with this weird little group of misfits, all of them victims of shitty circumstance in one way or another, now joined together in a mish-mashed group of semi-friends who spent most of their time together and helped each other out when help was needed, whether they even particularly liked each other or not.

_Kind of like a family,_ Roman thought, and that weird squirmy feeling of warmth invaded her chest again.

She shifted slightly on Varric’s chair. Then Samson subtly squeezed her ankle. “You all right, Bird?” he said quietly. 

She nodded. “Yeah. I’m fine,” she said. And for once, she genuinely meant it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am [Pikapeppa,](https://pikapeppa.tumblr.com/) and your genius artist and creator of the lovely snarly Roman Hawke is [Schoute.](https://schoute.tumblr.com/) xo


	13. Asshole

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> NSFW art - open at your own risk! 👀

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smut! All the usual warnings apply: pain play, some dom/sub, and a little something new for these two, as the art shows... 😏😏

Samson snuck silently through the shadows on his way to Roman’s house, his mind occupied with sorting through all the information he’d collected over the course of the week.

He’d spent the day shifting slowly from the docks to Lowtown’s market, then gradually up to the Hightown market at the end of the day, keeping his head down and listening carefully to what everyone was talking about. He’d listened in to everyone: merchants, nobles, peasants, other vagrants like himself, and as a lucky scoop, a couple of Templars on leave from the Gallows who were hanging around near the Blooming Rose — naughty fellows, they weren’t supposed to be there. As the day died down and activity in the more ‘elegant’ parts of the city began to wane, Samson headed back down toward the docks so he could pick up the last of the daily gossip from the more unsavoury parts of town. 

It was close to eleven o’clock now. As he made his way to Roman’s house, he contemplated everything he’d heard for the past few days: the pleasantries and the gossip and the seemingly unimportant news along with the more obvious events. And everything he’d heard only confirmed his suspicions.

There was a conspiracy developing at the Gallows. A coup to overthrow Meredith was being planned. What was more, the conspiracy involved a number of Templars and mages working together. 

_Intriguing stuff, this is,_ he thought wryly. And useful too, for his own means. Of course, Samson had no problem seeing Meredith ousted from the Gallows; if this had been happening a few years ago, he would have sat back and smiled as he watched her getting thrown out on her ass. Now, however, his priorities were different, and he couldn’t just sit back and enjoy the show.

The conspirators seemed to think that the mage problem in Kirkwall would settle down as soon as Meredith was thrown out. But the Templars at the Gallows didn’t live here in the city full-time. They hadn’t seen how the mage mistrust that Meredith fostered had percolated from the Gallows down to the Chantry and all the way through to the peasants. They couldn’t see how dangerous the situation in Kirkwall would still be, even if Meredith was overthrown.

They didn’t seem to see what was obvious to Samson: that even if Meredith was gone, a war between the mages and the Templars might happen all the same. And they also didn’t seem to see that if Meredith was forcibly ousted, the Chantry might demand the Right of Annulment. 

If that happened, all of the Circle mages would be put to death. Knowing how zealous the Templars had become, Samson was fairly sure the execution order wouldn’t stay contained to the Circle.

If the Right of Annulment came to pass, every mage hiding in Kirkwall would be in danger — including Roman Hawke. And the only way Samson could think of keeping the bird out of trouble was by putting himself back into it. 

The only way Samson could help Roman was by becoming a Templar again. 

His knowledge of the conspiracy was like a time bomb. He couldn’t wait indefinitely to act on what he knew, or the whole thing would happen before he could use it to his advantage. But if he showed his hand too soon, _he_ could be accused of being a traitor against the Chantry, and then he’d really lose everything, including his own head.

He narrowed his eyes thoughtfully as he trudged through the back alleys of Hightown. If he played his cards right and helped Thrask and the others, he could get himself reinstated to the Order when the coup was done. And once Samson was back in the Order, he would have his hands on the good lyrium again. He’d be strong again, and he’d have his Templar powers back. And importantly, he’d be in a good position to protect Roman if the Right of Annulment ever did come to pass. 

Of course, being reinstated to the Templar Order would mean moving back to the Gallows and out of Roman’s house. He wouldn’t be able to fight with her every day or fuck her every night. He wouldn’t be able to fall asleep with that bony spine of hers pressed against his chest. 

An aching feeling ebbed through his ribs. He swallowed hard to quell it and continued on his way to her mansion. _I’m no stranger to giving things up,_ he reminded himself. He’d be giving up his comforts when he returned to the Order, sure, but he’d get his strength back — and his purpose. He’d be more than a useless layabout on the street, and he’d be able to defend himself and other people the way Roman wanted.

He huffed to himself as he pulled his keys out of his pocket. _Good luck selling it to her that way when the time comes,_ he thought, and he opened the mansion’s front door.

He stepped inside. “Hey Bird!” he called. “I’m back.”

Monty came bolting through the foyer and straight toward Samson. Samson braced himself for Monty’s weight, and when the mabari reared back and planted his paws on Samson’s shoulders in greeting, he chuckled and gave Monty’s shoulder a hearty pat. “Ah come on, get down, you smelly mutt.”

Monty woofed in his face, then plonked his paws back on the floor and raced back through the house toward the kitchen. Samson followed him through the foyer, then veered into the study where Roman was lounging on the couch in front of the fire wearing a pair of rumpled linen breeches and a loose silk shirt.

Her music stand in the corner had some sheet music open, however, and her violin case was open on the floor. Samson quirked an eyebrow as he approached the couch. “Playing your fiddle, were you?” 

“No,” she muttered.

He chuckled. “Don’t stop on my account. You should play something for me.” He patted her leg, and she curled her legs up so he could sit down beside her.

“Not a fucking chance,” she said flatly. “I’m not a performing monkey.”

“Of course you’re no monkey,” he said. “You’re a bird.”

She scoffed and stretched her legs out on his lap. “You’re the only one who calls me that.”

“Yeah, and I’m the only one who gets to hear you sing.” He gave her a lecherous smile, and she scoffed again and poked his chest with her foot.

“You’re such a fucking pervert,” she accused.

“Takes one to know one,” he said.

She huffed and folded her arms, but she didn’t say anything more. She wasn’t smiling, but she wasn’t scowling either, and Samson shot her a faint smile before turning his gaze to the fire.

He watched the flickering flames for a while as he idly ran his palm along Roman’s bare shin. Then Roman spoke up. “What’s wrong with you?”

He blinked, then looked at her once more. “What d’you mean? Nothing’s wrong.” 

“Then why does your face look like that?” she asked.

“Like what?”

“More sour than usual.”

He huffed in amusement. “You’re saying _I_ look sour? That’s the pot calling the oven black.”

She poked him again with her foot. “It’s ‘the pot calling the cauldron black’, dumbass. Seriously, what’s wrong?”

“It’s nothing, Bird,” he said. “Leave it be.”

“If there’s something to leave be, then it’s not nothing,” she retorted.

He sighed. She wasn’t wrong, really. He’d been thinking a little gloomily about the peaceful feeling of sitting here with Roman on the couch, and how different it was going to be if he ended up as a Templar again. What it would be like living in the Gallows again with comrades for company instead of Roman, sleeping in a bed all to himself in the barracks without her lanky body pressed against him and sucking up all his heat… 

He couldn’t tell her that, though. He couldn’t tell her that he was thinking of finagling his way back into the Templars, and not just because he wasn’t in the mood to row about it right now. 

Truthfully, he didn’t want to face it yet — not just yet. He just wanted to enjoy a second of comfort with the pretty bird.

She was still staring expectantly at him, and her face was slowly creasing into a frown. He was going to have to tell her something, some reason that he was looking sour, or she’d stubbornly wear away at him like a mabari with a bone. 

He shrugged and turned back to the fire. “Just something I saw in the market today. Mages and Templars, you know how things are nowadays.”

She narrowed her eyes. “What happened?”

“A mage in the Lowtown market,” he said listlessly. “Young one, escaped from the Circle somehow. Four Templars found her. Cornered her and started telling her off.”

“Threatening her, you mean,” Roman said roughly.

She was right, but it wouldn’t help her mood to say so. “She slit her wrists,” Samson said. “Turned into an abomination in the market, killed one of the Templars and had to be put down.”

Roman sighed loudly and rubbed her forehead, and Samson squeezed her shin. “Listen, I know it’s bad—”

“That’s the thing,” she said loudly. “This is happening so often here that it’s getting normal. I fucking hate it.”

_Then leave,_ he thought. _Get out of here and go somewhere safe._ He didn’t bother to say it, though; there was no point. 

Roman shifted her feet from his lap to the floor and started to stand, and Samson reached out and grabbed her arm. “Where’re you off to?”

She shook off his hand and started to pace angrily in front of the fire. “The Templars goaded that mage today, didn’t they?” 

He didn’t reply, and she scoffed. “You don’t need to confirm it. I can tell it’s true from the look on your face. They fucking goaded her, and they’re going to keep doing it to every suspected apostate in the city, and this shit is going to keep happening because the city is a fucking mage trap!” 

He sighed and patted the couch. “Roman, come sit down.”

She ignored him. “You know it’s only a matter of time before Meredith sends Templars to my door, don’t you? It’s just a fucking matter of time. I bet she even thinks I’ll come quietly since I’m the good little Champion of Kirkwall.”

A joke about ‘coming quietly’ came to his mind, but he kept it to himself. Dirty jokes calmed Roman down sometimes, but he was fairly sure it wouldn’t work right now.

“No one who knows you would think you’d go anywhere quietly,” he said instead.

“Damn right,” she snapped, apparently unfazed by his sarcasm. “I’ll fucking kill any Templar who tries to drag me to the Gallows.”

He raised a sardonic eyebrow. “You going to turn into an abomination too to avoid being dragged in?”

“I will not be fucking captured, Samson,” she yelled. “I won’t be bound and chained by the Templars. I’d rather fucking die than let them try and hold me down.”

“You didn’t seem to mind gettin’ held down last night,” he retorted.

As soon as the cheeky words left his mouth, he regretted them completely, and not just because Roman went completely still. She turned around slowly to face him, and an actual chill went down his spine at the look on her face. 

“What the fuck did you just say?” she said. 

Her voice was quiet, and cold enough to freeze stone. He rubbed his forehead, wishing he could punch himself instead. “I… it was nothing,” he muttered. “It was a stupid… It was nothing. I’m just an idiot, all right?”

“No, come on, don’t be fucking shy,” she said. “Tell me what you meant.”

“It was stupid,” he insisted. “I was just tryin’ to lighten the mood. Tryin’ to make you laugh.”

Her eyebrows rose. “You think it would make me laugh to be fucking chained up by the Templars?”

A very visceral fear twisted in his gut at the thought. “No,” he said harshly. “For Maker’s fucking sake, no. I just…” He sighed heavily. “I meant how you like it sometimes when I hold your wrists when we’re doing the deed.”

She glared at him. “That’s not—”

He cut her off. “I know it’s not the same. It was a joke. A bloody bad one, clearly, and I’m sorry.”

She clenched her jaw and continued to stare stonily at him, and he gave her a pleading look. “I’m sorry, all right? I mean it. I didn’t… I didn’t think. I’m an idiot, and I didn’t think before I opened my trap. I am sorry, Roman,” he insisted. What he couldn’t tell her, however, was that he wasn’t just sorry for the imbecilic thing he’d just said. 

As he gazed at her angry face, he wished she could understand everything he was sorry for: for not being able to stop what he’d seen earlier today. For not being strong enough to keep her safe from her greatest fears. For making plans to go back to the Templars — something she might honestly not forgive him for.

She was still staring at him like he was a piece of shit on her shoe, and it just made his chest ache all the worse. Unable to bear that look on her face, he stood up. “All right, I get it, I’ll go.”

“You like holding me down, then?” she said.

He stopped short. “Eh?”

“Do you like holding me down when we’re fucking?” she said, clearly and slowly. 

His belly jolted nervously. This felt like a trick somehow. If he told the truth and said ‘yes’, if he admitted that there was something breathtaking about Roman Hawke allowing him to hold her down, would she kick him out for good? 

Maybe he should fib and tell her he didn’t like holding her down. But there was something oddly intense about her gaze that made him think he shouldn’t lie.

He sighed and tucked his hands in his pockets. “Yeah. I like it,” he admitted. “Why? You want me to stop doing it?”

She continued to stare at him, and Samson waited tensely for her to speak. 

Instead, she shoved past him and headed for the stairs. 

_Fuck,_ he thought miserably. Why did he have to be so bloody Maker-damned clever? He knew better than to try and crack wise when Roman was in one of her moods. 

He stepped out of the study and morosely studied the rigid line of her spine as she made her way up the stairs. It looked like he’d be spending the night out in the streets. 

He turned away from the stairs and headed resignedly for the door. Then her strident voice called to him from the top of the stairs. “Well? Are you coming?”

His heart flipped. She wasn’t kicking him out?

He turned back to the stairs, but she’d disappeared into her bedroom. Relieved and wary at the same time, he hurried up the stairs and stepped into her bedroom just in time to see her pulling her silk shirt over her head.

His gut jolted, and he hastily shut the door. “Roman—”

“Shut up,” she said. She tossed the shirt on the armchair in the corner, then untied the crimson scarf from her wrist and held it out. “Take this.”

He dragged his eyes from her lacy little bra to her still-angry face. “Why?” he said warily.

She stared flatly at him for second, then wet her lips before speaking. “You like holding me down? Then tie me up.”

His heart stopped for a second — and a shameful flush of heat pooled low in his belly. “W-what?” he said weakly.

She gestured roughly with the scarf. “Use this and tie my wrists with it.”

He dumbly took the scarf. “Why?” he said.

“Will you just do it?” she snapped.

He raised his eyebrows at her vehemence. Then he slowly stepped closer to her. “Not until you tell me why,” he said seriously. “First you’re telling me you’ll fight the whole bloody Order before you let them put you in chains. Now you want me to tie you up?”

She glared viciously at him, but this time, he was uncowed. This situation felt dangerous somehow, like Roman was taunting him to push her off a cliff, and he couldn’t do what she was asking without a proper explanation.

“Explain it to me, Bird,” he said. “What’s the logic here?”

“I don’t fucking know,” she said impatiently. “I just — will you just fucking do it?”

“No,” he insisted. “Not until you tell me why you want to be tied up.”

“I don’t want to be tied up!” she yelled. “I want _you_ to tie me up.”

He stared at her in bemusement. This made even less sense. “Why me?”

“Because you’re not a fucking Templar,” she said harshly.

His gut twisted. “You trying to rub it in or something?”

“It’s a good thing, you asshole,” she snapped. “Don’t you get that?”

“Honestly, Bird, I don’t get any of this,” he said.

She folded her arms and rolled her eyes. “It’s fine when _you_ hold me down. You’re not a fucking asshole.”

“But… if I tie you down after you just said you don’t want to be chained, won’t that make me an asshole?” he said slowly. 

“No, because you’ll let me go when I want to be untied,” she said impatiently. 

_Oh,_ he thought. A glimmer of understanding was coming to him. If Samson tied her up, she could tell him to stop at any moment, and he actually would. If a Templar tied her up, on the other hand… 

A chill ran down his spine at the thought, along with another spark of comprehension. “You want me to act like an asshole because I’m not really an asshole,” he said. 

She shrugged irritably and looked away. “Yeah, I guess. Whatever.”

He nodded slowly. This wasn’t any different than what they usually did during sex, then. When things were getting rough, if he was pulling her hair or biting her or spanking her ass, Roman knew she could tell him to ease up or stop, and he knew he could do the same if she was getting too rough. 

Not that they’d ever needed to stop as of yet. In all these years — Maker’s balls, how long had they been fucking now, three years? Four? — neither of them had needed to call a stop. Despite their disagreements and their rows, he and Roman always seemed to find their groove when their clothes were off and the lights were low.

A prickling wave of heat rose in his chest — and a complicated sort of pressure too, almost like a kind of gratitude, or maybe even something like grief. Roman really was different from anyone else he’d been with before. The way he fucked her, the things they did in bed (and in the kitchen and the bathroom and on the couch): Samson had never been like this with any other woman before. Before he met Roman, he’d never thought much about the dirty talk stuff, about whispering filthy things in a woman’s ear while doing the deed, and he had never really wanted to. Pulling hair, biting, spanking, all those raw and uninhibited things that he and Roman did together on a regular basis: he’d never done any of that with anyone before Roman, and he’d never really thought try.

He’d never been with a woman before who enjoyed herself during sex like Roman did, or who… well, who enjoyed _him_ as much as Roman seemed to do. Having a partner who wanted him to do those raw intense things with her, the dirty talk and the spanking and all that — who wanted all of that from _him_... 

The pressure in his chest swelled. She’d just said it herself: she wanted that from _him_ , not from anyone else. She wanted to be tied down by _him_ , not by some other bloke. She trusted _Samson_ to tie her up and to let her go. And that really was what this was, wasn’t it? It was trust. Roman trusted him to do right by her. And the way she made him feel when they were together… 

Never with any other woman had he felt so much himself as he did with Roman. When Roman was panting and arching beneath him while he held her down and growled dirty things in her ear, when she was biting his lip and shoving him back on the bed and telling him to shut the fuck up while she rode him like a racehorse: these intense, raw, crystal-clear moments of sex with Roman were the most lucid and uninhibited moments in his life, moments when he felt the most like himself — all because of her. 

“Why are you staring at me?” she demanded.

He jolted slightly. Balls, he’d been staring blankly at her like an idiot. 

He shook off his thoughts, then took a small step closer to her. “Let me make sure I’m clear here, then. You want me to strip your kit off, then tie your hands with this ‘ere scarf.”

Her spine straightened a little — just a little, but enough for Samson to notice. “Yes,” she said.

A little ripple of heat pulsed in his abdomen. He took another step closer. “And then what? You want me to… what, to push you down on the bed with your hands all tied up? Push open your legs while you can’t push me off?”

Her throat bobbed in a hard swallow. “Yes,” she said again.

He nodded casually and rubbed the fabric of her scarf between his fingers. “And then I guess I’d be fucking you while you’re tied like a wild horse.”

“Yeah, okay?” she snapped. “Yes.”

He nodded again, then tucked her scarf in his pocket and reached for the delicate little front clasp of her bra. “Maybe I’ll be pulling your hair and biting you, too,” he suggested. “Make you hurt a little. That what you want?”

“Yes, okay? For fuck’s sake,” she snapped. 

Samson gave her a chiding look, then tapped her forearm. She unfolded her arms, and he took off her bra and dropped it on the floor.

Then he took her chin in a hard grip. 

She gasped and grabbed his wrist, and Samson kissed her hard. She made a muffled sound of protest against his lips, and he pulled away before she could bite him. “Fine,” he said. “I’ll tie your wrists, Bird. But you’re going to do something for me, too.”

She curled her lip. “Oh yeah? What’s that?”

“If you think I’m being too much of an asshole, you’re going to tell me to stop,” he said.

The sudden change in her body was like the striking a match: her shoulders instantly lost their tension, and she arched her chest toward him.

His eyes fell instinctively to her bare nipples, and a heated flare of lust pulsed between his legs. Roman let out a heavy exhale before gasping in a new breath. “Fine,” she said breathlessly.

He tore his eyes back to her face. “Say it,” he commanded.

“Say what?” she said.

He smirked. “Say, ‘Yeah, Samson, I’ll tell you to stop if I want you to stop.”

She sneered at his mocking tone. “I’ll tell you to stop if I want you to stop, okay? Just fucking tie me up already.”

He _tsk_ ed at her rudeness. “All right, all right. Bloody impatient, you are. Get over to the bed.” He released her chin, then gave her ass a little spank.

She shot him a dirty look as she approached the bed, and he chuckled as he followed her. “Ah, don’t give me that look now,” he taunted. He took her arm and turned her around so she was facing the bed, then placed his palm between her shoulder blades. 

He pushed her forward until she was face down on the bed. She pressed her cheek into the mattress and arched her spine, and Samson shamelessly admired the curve of her back and the shape of her ass. He smoothed his palm over her linen-covered buttock, and she gasped and pressed her ass back toward him. 

He chuckled. “Eager already, eh?”

“Shut up,” she snapped, and she arched her spine some more. 

“Don’t think I will,” Samson said. “Give me your hands.”

She reached behind her back with both arms, and Samson continued to admire her half-naked body as he pulled her crimson scarf out of his pocket. He studied her wrists for a second, then carefully wound the scarf around them before tying the ends in a knot. 

He eyed her wrists a little uncertainly and tugged at the scarf. He didn’t think the binding was cutting off her circulation, but he couldn’t be sure. “How’s that?” he asked. “Too tight?”

“No,” she said. “It’s good.” 

“You able to move your arms a bit?” he said. 

She _tsk_ ed. “It’s fine, okay? Now get on with it.”

Samson huffed and folded his arms. “You’re real bossy, you know that, Bird? But from where I’m standing, you’re not the one in charge here. You’re the one who’s tied down, so I’ll be the one givin’ orders.”

“Oh yeah?” she said snarkily. “Like what?”

He stepped up right behind her, then planted his hands on the mattress on either side of her body and slowly lowered himself over her body. He kissed her bare shoulder, then bit her.

She gasped and jolted, and Samson sucked on the smooth skin of her shoulder until she cried out — a sharp little cry of pleasure and pain. He released her shoulder, then brushed his lips over her ear. 

“Orders like ‘stay still while I strip you’,” he murmured.

She exhaled hard and shifted her hips beneath him, and her bound hands brushed against his cock. He grunted, then nipped the edge of her ear. 

“Ow!” she gasped.

“Stay bloody well still,” he growled. Then he straightened and reached around her front to untie her breeches. 

She lifted herself on her tiptoes to grant him better access, and he smirked as he untied the laces. “I knew you were eager. Let’s see just how eager.” With one rough movement, he pulled her breeches and her smalls down to her ankles. 

She twisted her spine and whimpered, and Samson stared shamelessly at her pussy. Maker’s mercy, she was so wet already — wet enough that there was a liquid thread of it trailing from her pussy to the inner margin of her thigh, and he hadn’t even done anything yet. 

He smoothed his palm carefully over her ass, and she jerked back toward him. Then he spanked her.

She jolted and cried out, and Samson gently patted her buttcheek. “That’s for moving when I told you to be still,” he said silkily.

She burst out a breathy little moan. “Asshole,” she accused.

“Right you are,” he agreed. “And I’ll spank you again if you don’t do as I say.” He gripped her butt firmly in one hand, and with the other, he reached between her legs and stroked her folds.

She gasped and arched her spine, and Samson spanked her again. “Stay bloody still, Bird,” he scolded, and he rubbed her clit in a slow and careful swirl.

She moaned and rocked her hips back toward his hand, and Samson stared at the hypnotic movements of her hips for a moment, enjoying the arching of her spine and the way his cock seemed to pulse in time with the rhythm of her hips. Then he removed his hand from between her legs and spanked her again.

She cried out, and Samson _tsk_ ed. “You just don’t listen, do you? Stand up.” 

“I can’t without my hands,” she snapped.

He almost laughed — _almost_. She was right, of course, but he was supposed to be playing a role. “You can’t?” he said. “Don’t tell me you _can’t._ ” He spanked her other buttcheek this time, and her resulting pleasured yelp made his cock twitch more insistently. 

“You’re such a fucking asshole,” she moaned. 

He took hold of her shoulder and pulled her upright, then pulled her back against his chest and gripped her throat. She gasped and leaned her head back against his shoulder, and Samson pressed his lips to her ear. 

“I am a fucking asshole, yeah,” he murmured in her ear. “Let’s see just how much of an asshole I am.” Without relaxing his grip on her throat, he reached between her legs and started caressing her clit again. 

She moaned and arched her spine, and Samson caressed her clit for a few moments longer before releasing her throat. Slowly, carefully, he slid his palm down over her sternum, then took her petite breast in his palm. 

She drew a shaky breath and rocked herself against his fingers. “F-fuck…”

He played with her nipple as he whispered in her ear. “You like this, do you? Feels nice, does it?”

She pressed her lips together and nodded, and Samson hummed thoughtfully in her ear. “Interesting, that. You like it when I pet your pussy like this, so it’d be nice for me to keep going, wouldn’t it?

She nodded again, and he continued to caress her nipple and her clit as he spoke into her ear. “Well, here’s the thing, Bird. I’m not a nice bloke right now, right?” He pinched her nipple gently, and a little moan burst from her throat. 

“No,” she whined. She was rocking her hips faster now, like she knew what he was going to do, and he smirked as he spoke into her ear again. 

“That’s right, I’m not,” he said silkily. “I’m an asshole. A mean, cruel asshole. So what I’m going to do next…” He trailed off and kept rolling his fingers over her clit, listening carefully to the quality of her breathing. When her breathing was a series of erratic panting whimpers, he suddenly pulled his hand away. 

“No!” she cried.

“Sorry, Bird,” he said, and he pinched her nipple hard to make her cry out again. “Assholes don’t let the lady come first.” 

She didn’t reply, which came as no surprise; she was gasping for breath against his chest, and when he turned her around roughly so she was facing him, she glared at him viciously.

He smiled sarcastically at her, then chucked her chin. “Cheer up. You’ll get yours eventually. But first, you’re going to lie down on your back.” He pushed her hip until she plopped down on the bed, then jerked his chin at her. “Come on, lie down.”

“Then what?” she demanded, but she did as he asked. 

“You’ll see, that’s what,” he said. “Open your legs.”

She sneered at him but spread her legs, and Samson’s gut tightened with lust as he stared at her. Seeing her like this, spread wide and soaking wet for him with her hands behind her back, looking so helpless and just waiting for him to act: she looked incredible. Defiant but vulnerable at the same time, with that stubborn little scowl on her face despite the telltale flush of her cheeks, and everything about her made Samson want her all the more. 

He started to strip, unlacing his shirt and kicking off his shoes, and in a matter of moments, he was naked and stepping up to the bed. He kneeled between her legs, then bent over her and gripped the back of her neck before nudging her entrance with the head of his cock. 

Her lips fell open with a gasp, and she jolted toward him. Slowly, almost torturously slowly, Samson pushed himself inside of her. 

Her face twisted with pleasure as he entered her, and he stared fixedly at her plump scarlet lips as he filled her up. By the time his hips were flush to hers, she was moaning and twisting beneath him, and she felt so fucking good and tight that he was close to losing control over what he’d been planning to do with her.

He breathed hard, then drew back and thrust into her again. She cried out, and Samson gasped in pleasure as well: fuck, she was so warm and wet, and he just wanted to keep going… 

With a huge effort of will, he pulled out of her completely. 

“Fuck’s sake!” she burst out, and she arched her spine. “Fuck’s sake, fuck, Samson—”

“Shut up,” he snapped. “Open your mouth wide.”

His voice sounded rough and guttural, like some kind of common thug, but it seemed to have the right effect; Roman instantly stopped talking and opened her mouth, and Samson carefully crawled over her body until he was straddling her shoulders. 

He touched her lips with his lust-slicked cock. “I’m going to fuck your mouth now, and you’re going to like it,” he said roughly.

She scoffed, but her eyes were blazing with interest and her mouth was open wide. Samson smiled wickedly at her, then slid the tip of his cock between her lips. 

She angled her head to take him, and he adjusted the position of his hips as well, lifting and tilting his pelvis to slide his length past her palate toward her throat. He panted fitfully as he slid into her mouth — her mouth that was also hot and wet just like her pussy, _fuck_ — 

Then he realized she wouldn’t be able to tell him to stop if his cock was in her mouth.

He pulled out of her mouth. “If you want me to stop, just, uh… blink hard, all right? Squeeze your eyes shut.”

“Fine, fine,” she said impatiently. “Just fuck my mouth already.”

Her base words hit him like a gut punch of desire. He gave her a feral little smile, then opened her mouth with one hand on her chin and slid his cock into her mouth once more.

He groaned ecstatically as he sank his cock down to her throat. She moaned around his cock, a very muffled little sound, and Samson let out a breathless little laugh. “You like this, eh? Maybe I should be finding another way to punish you.”

She made another sound — one he could only interpret as a protest — and he chuckled again and pumped into her throat again. “All right, Bird, I’ll keep fucking your mouth,” he said. “Only because I like it too.” He thrust into her mouth carefully, a smooth careful rhythm that she met with the bobbing of her head.

He breathed slowly through the inexorable rise of his climax and ran his palm over her raven-haired head. “You can taste yourself, can’t you?” he panted. “You taste yourself all over my cock. And when I come in your throat, you’re going to taste me too.”

She whimpered again, and the obvious sound of her enjoyment only spurred his own pleasure. He pumped into her lips, her plush scarlet lips that she so rarely allowed him to kiss, but that she opened so readily for the pumping of his cock… 

He dragged in a tremulous breath. “I’m… I’m going to fuck your throat so deep that you can’t breathe,” he groaned. “I’m… ah, bloody hell…” He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t keep up the dirty talk while she was sucking him off. It felt too good, too tight and warm for him to think about anything else, and his climax — Maker’s balls, his climax was rising fast. 

He groaned and tightened his fingers on the crown of her head. His climax was rising higher with every thrust, coiling into a tense spiral of pleasure deep in his abdomen, a coil of pleasure that grew more intense as his cock reached into her throat— 

His rapture burst and unfurled through his limbs, and a guttural groan burst from his lips as he gripped the tufty hair at the crown of Roman’s head. He thrust into her mouth a few more times, long careful thrusts as the pleasure fanned through his body, and when his orgasm finally ebbed away and left him shaky, he withdrew from her mouth and flopped onto his back beside her.

“Fuck,” he groaned. 

She twisted her spine restlessly and turned her head to glare at him. “What, you’re just going to leave me like this?”

He smirked at her, and when he’d caught his breath, he rolled onto his side so he was facing her. “Mouthy bird,” he mused. He smoothed his palm from her belly up to her breast, then suddenly twisted her nipple. 

She cried out and arched into his hand. He dropped his mouth to her other breast and took her nipple in his mouth, and in the space of seconds, Roman was writhing and gasping for breath. 

He bit her nipple lightly, then nipped the side of her breast and began sucking hard on her flesh, and her face twisted with pleasure and pain. “Fuck fuck,” she whined. “Ah fuck — _ah!_ ”

He released her breast and admired the mark of his teeth on her body, then squeezed her hip. “Onto your belly. You can do that by yourself, at least.”

She blew out a shaky breath and shot him a dirty look, then rolled onto her belly, and Samson smoothed his palm over her butt. “Up on your knees, Bird.”

She raised herself onto her knees a little clumsily, and Samson smugly admired her posture: cheek on the bed, her back arched like a bow with her ass raised up for him, all exposed and vulnerable with her hands tied securely behind her back… 

“Well?” she snapped. “Are you just going to stare at me?”

He grinned. “Maybe,” he said. “Having your ass in the air for me is pretty nice. Maybe I’ll keep it there for a bit.” 

She curled her lip and tugged at her wrists. “You’re such a dick.”

He laughed, then dipped his head down and firmly kissed her. She made an annoyed sound against his lips, but she couldn’t move away, and Samson gave her one more playful kiss before pushing himself upright.

“All right, let’s see what we’ve got here,” he said. He shuffled down on the bed until he was positioned behind her, then smoothed his palm along the back of her thigh toward her buttock.

He heard her sharp intake of breath. She parted her knees a little more, spreading herself wider for his gaze, and he studied the plump rosy folds of her pussy with a fresh stirring of interest in his gut. 

He stroked her buttock, then gave her butt a sharp smack. “Open wider, Bird.” 

“Fuck you,” she gasped. 

He snickered. “You cursing me, or you asking?” Without waiting for a reply, he tilted his head to the side and nipped the back of her thigh with his teeth.

She gasped again and jolted, and Samson inhaled greedily. Maker’s balls, she smelled so good, all raw and musky and ready for him, and he breathed her in once more before angling his head again and biting the inside of her thigh – as close to her pussy as he could get without actually touching her sex. 

Roman yelped. “Ow!”

He unrepentantly nipped her other thigh, and she yelped again and spread her legs wider. “Come on, come _on_ ,” she urged, “just lick me—”

He spanked her. She cried out and arched her spine, and Samson gripped her buttock hard before speaking. “Shut your mouth, Bird,” he said roughly. “I’ll bloody well lick you when I feel like it.” Then, unable to resist, he ran his tongue between her legs. 

She let out a tense little whine and pushed herself back toward his face. Samson dug his fingers into her buttock to hold her still, then licked her firmly, stroking the length of her sex with his tongue before teasing her clit with the tip of his tongue. 

“Oh fuck,” she gasped. 

He smirked and lapped at her clit, this nice swollen little bud between her legs that was all wet from his tongue and her own juices — juices that he was drinking up like a man parched from the desert. He licked her hungrily before returning to caress her clit with his tongue, and all the while he was listening to her feral little panting moans.

Her breathing grew sharp and tense, signalling the edge of her release. When she let out a strangled cry of climax, he slid one finger inside of her. 

“Please!” she screamed.

He paused in surprise – and not a little satisfaction. It was rare that he was able to get Roman to say ‘please’. And he hadn’t even had to tell her to beg this time!

He delved his finger inside of her and lapped at her clit, and she mewled with pleasure and twisted her hips. “Fuck, fuck, come on, please…”

He licked her for a moment longer, then pulled his finger free and rose onto his knees behind her. “Up you get now,” he said. “Come on.” He gripped her arm in one hand and slid his other hand around the front of her throat to pull her upright, and by the time she was pressed back against his chest, she was practically sobbing for breath.

He traced the edge of her ear with his tongue, then laughed softly when she jerked her head away. “Look at you, actin’ like you don’t love every second of this,” he crooned, and he stroked her throat before giving it a gentle squeeze. 

“I hate you,” she whimpered. 

“Ah, that’s unkind,” he taunted. “And here I was about to say you can pick how you want to get fucked, since you were such a sweet songbird saying ‘please’.”

She dragged in a shaky breath, and Samson smiled against her ear. “That’s right, Bird. I was going to give you a choice.” He slid his free hand between her legs and petted her folds.

She mewled and wiggled her hips, and he did his best to pretend her desperation wasn’t driving him to the edge of his own control as well. “Do you want to be fucked from behind like a wild beast?” he said. “Or you want to sit on my lap and ride me?”

“Yes!” she blurted.

“Yes to what?” he said. “From behind like a bitch in heat, or on top like a horsemaster? Either way, you’re going to get it hard.”

“On top!” she wailed. “On top, come on, just fuck me—”

He bit the juncture of her shoulder and her neck to shut her up, then released her and shifted on the bed so he was lounging back against her pillows. “Come here, then,” he said, and he gestured for her to shuffle closer. “Get on top of me.”

She shuffled toward him on her knees, and he grasped her arm to help her balance as she straddled his hips. She immediately positioned herself over his cock and started to sink onto him, and he gasped and gripped her arm hard to stop her. 

“Hang on, hang on,” he rasped. “No one said you’re in charge.”

She tried to twist her arm from his grip. “Samson, come on!” she whined. “Come on, just fuck me—”

He gritted his teeth. Fuck, only the tip of his cock was inside of her, and it felt so fucking good. 

Unable to hold out any longer, he released her arm. “All right, fine—”

She came down firmly on his cock, and they both cried out. She lifted herself and came down onto his lap a second time, and Samson reached around her and gripped her bound wrist. 

“Easy, easy,” he gasped. “Slow down.”

“You said you’d fuck me hard!” she said breathlessly. 

“Slow first,” he groaned. “Go slow for a bloody second.” He slid his other hand into her hair and pulled her head back, then dragged his tongue along the length of her neck. 

She moaned and strained on his lap, driving him deeper into her hot tight depths, and Samson gasped against her collarbone before pulling up on her bound wrist. She rose obediently with his hand, and in the space of seconds, she was undulating slowly on his lap while he panted fitfully against her throat. 

He licked her collarbone and pressed his lips to the salty skin of her neck. She was whimpering with every thrust, her body tight with tension as she moved slowly in time with his tight grip on her wrist, and when Samson bit the tendon in her neck, she sobbed.

“Samson, please, just fuck me hard!” she cried.

It was the plea that did it: the third time she was saying ‘please’ without needing to be asked, with that broken little strain of need in her voice, and Samson couldn’t resist her anymore.

“All right,” he gasped. “All right, I’ll fuck you hard.” He released her hair and gripped the back of her neck, then thrust into her hard. 

She let out a feral cry that reached hotly through his blood and into his cock. Samson slammed into her again, then again and again, and then Roman was riding him in a fast and vicious rhythm. He gripped her neck and braced his other palm on the bed for balance as he lifted his hips to meet her, and she was moaning like the wanton little demon that she was, and her forehead was pressed to his, their breath hot and gusty as they fucked each other hard, his rapture rising with every lusty breath...

He kissed her hard, then groaned against her lips as his climax burst. She thrust her tongue into his mouth, and he hungrily stroked her tongue with his, surprised and thrilled by the reciprocity of the kiss— 

She nipped his tongue, and he pulled away with a gasp. “Bloody hell,” he groaned, and he dropped his forehead to her chest as the shudders of pleasure shivered through his limbs. 

Her chest was rising and falling with her rapid breaths. Samson lazily closed his eyes to savour the tidal rise and fall of her chest, and once he’d caught his own breath, he nuzzled her breast with his cheek. 

Roman huffed and wiggled her shoulders. “Your whiskers are scratchy.”

He playfully rubbed his unshaven face against her nipple, and she clicked her tongue. “Ugh, gross. Untie me.”

He immediately lifted his head. “Ah, right right. Sorry about that.” He reached around her to untie her wrists, carefully inspecting her face as he did. 

She wasn’t smiling — no surprise there — but her face looked relaxed and calm. She looked as nearly-pleasant as she usually did after sex, and he relaxed a little at the sight. Not that he’d expected her to be upset or anything, but this whole tying-her-up thing… ah, he didn’t really know what he was doing, so there was always a chance he might’ve fucked it up. From the look on her face, though, it looked like she’d enjoyed it.

He removed the scarf from her wrists. She sighed and wiggled her shoulders as though to loosen them, and Samson warily eyed her slightly reddened wrists. 

“You all right, Bird?” he asked.

“Yeah,” she said. Then she rolled off of him and went to the bathroom. 

He eyed her naked back a little worriedly, then shuffled under the blankets. When she came back a couple of minutes later, he shifted over so she could have the warm side of the bed. 

She slid under the blankets and rolled onto her side to face him, and he studied her curiously as he settled back into the blankets. She didn’t often lie facing him in bed. 

She was frowning now, but her expression was pensive rather than angry. He ran a hand over her messy hair. “What’re you thinking?” he asked.

She pursed her lips and didn’t reply right away. Then after a tense moment, she finally spoke. 

“Thanks,” she said brusquely.

He raised his eyebrows. “For what?”

“For the…” She licked her lips. “For tying me like I asked.”

“Hey, don’t thank me,” he said. “I liked it too.” He pulled a little face. “I was hoping I wouldn’t bungle it. Never done that before.”

“Me neither,” she said quietly.

He blinked. “Really?” 

Her frown deepened slightly, and she dropped his gaze. “Yeah. Whatever.”

He studied her in genuine surprise for a second. She’d asked him so boldly to tie her up that he’d just assumed she had done it before. 

“You seemed real sure of what you wanted,” he said.

She scowled at him. “I know what I want, okay? I just… didn’t want to do it with anyone else before.”

His heart twisted. She — this was something she’d only wanted to do with him? That seemed… special somehow, sappy and soft as that might make him sound. But then again, he’d been feeling all sappy about Roman just before they’d started fucking, so he supposed it was only fair. 

He grinned and stroked her hair. “That’s nice, Bird. Real romantic-like.”

She scoffed and smacked his hand away. “Fuck you.”

“You just did,” he retorted.

She shot him a dirty look, but he could see the smirk at the corners of her lips. He chuckled and pulled her closer. “Ah come on, you can laugh. I know you want to.”

She scoffed and pushed his belly, but Samson was undeterred; he pulled her against his chest and kissed her forehead, and she finally let out a little huff. 

“Your jokes are stupid,” she mumbled against his chest.

He winced. “Yeah, I know. I’m still sorry about that.”

“Whatever,” she said. “You made up for it.”

He glanced down at her, then grinned; there was a very faint smile at the corners of her lips now.

He chuckled and wrapped his arm around her. “Anytime, Bird.”

Roman huffed again, and Samson smiled and pressed his lips to her hair. Having her snug and warm in his arms like this, their legs tangled together and her hair scented with vanilla and almonds and the lingering fragrance of their sex: this was a precious moment, the kind of moment that he’d never really imagined he would have, and certainly not with someone as prickly and standoffish as Roman Hawke. 

The kind of intimate, everyday moments he would lose if the Templars took him back. 

A dull pang of guilt diluted some of his contentment. He hastily pushed the unpleasant thoughts away and closed his eyes. For now, for this suspended moment, the mages and the Templars and their conspiracies were miles away, and everything was fine. 

For now, Roman Hawke was in his arms, and everything was just fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am [Pikapeppa on Tumblr,](https://pikapeppa.tumblr.com/) and your STELLAR artiste and creator of Roman Hawke is [Schoutey Schoute!](https://schoute.tumblr.com/) xoxo


	14. Leaving

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter revolves around the Act III quest [_Best Served Cold_](https://dragonage.fandom.com/wiki/Best_Served_Cold) \-- also known as The One Where Hawke's Sibling/LI Gets Kidnapped. Also known as the one that Samson is in... 😭
> 
> Plot, angst, and smut. All the usual content warnings apply: rough sex, pain play, a little dubcon, and alcohol use.

###  SAMSON 

Samson lingered at the outskirts of the conspirators’ camp on the Wounded Coast, slowly eating an apple while he listened to their talk. Plans to get Meredith booted from the Gallows were well under way: Thrask had managed to bring on allies from every rank within the Order and the Circle alike, and they were planning to make their move by the end of the week.

Which meant that by the end of the week, he’d be back in with the Templars, powered up with high-quality lyrium and well-placed to help protect the mages just the way Roman thought he should.

He sighed and took another bite of apple. All he needed now was to find the balls to tell her he was going back to the Order.

“Excuse me.”

A sharp female voice interrupted his thoughts. He looked up from his apple to find a very young Templar frowning at him. 

He straightened up and nodded politely. “What can I do for you?”

“Who are you and what are you doing here?” she demanded. 

“I’m helping,” he said.

“ _You’re_ helping us?” she said skeptically.

He glanced at his half-eaten apple. “Well, not right at this second since I’m in the middle of something, but—”

She cut him off. “You’re that beggar from Lowtown. I recognize you from before I joined the Templars. Why are you really here?”

Now he understood her suspicion. She’d joined the Order after Samson had been kicked out, so she didn’t know his sorry tale. This made sense, given how young she was; she couldn’t have been more than sixteen. 

_The Chantry’s really been recruiting babes from their mother’s bosoms,_ he thought ruefully. But before he could answer, Ser Thrask approached them. 

“There is no need for suspicion, Ser Ella,” he told the young Templar. “He is one of us.”

She saluted Thrask, but she was still frowning. “I don’t understand, ser. He’s a vagrant from Lowtown.”

“He was once a Templar, and he still is at heart,” Thrask said. “The Knight-Commander cast him out for treating a mage with kindness.”

Ella wilted. “Oh. I see.”

Thrask patted her shoulder. “You must continue working to see beyond simple labels. Vagrants and nobles, mages and Templars — these labels matter little, for we are all human at heart, and all capable of kindness and understanding.” He gazed earnestly at her. “Is that not what we are all fighting for? Kindness and understanding?”

She dropped her eyes humbly. “Yes, Ser Thrask.”

Samson nodded as well. “Ser.”

Thrask smiled at him, then ushered Ella away, and Samson leaned casually against a nearby dead tree and bit his apple. Thrask really was a good sort of bloke. He’d worked for years to get this conspiracy going, and Samson was surprised to find that it was actually shaping up quite well. 

_Someone other than Roman who’s able to get things done around here,_ he thought. But as soon as he thought of Roman, his belly started to twist with nerves once more. She was going to tear him a new asshole when she found out what he’d been up to. Not the ousting-Meredith part, but the going-back-to-the-Templars part. This conspiracy lark would be coming to a head soon, so he’d be better off telling her sooner than later about the upcoming coup and his plans. 

_I’ll tell her tomorrow,_ he thought — just as he’d been thinking every day for the past couple of weeks – and he continued to eat his apple. 

“They’re back!” someone shouted. 

Samson turned to look at the path leading to the conspirators’ camp, and his stomach dropped like a stone.

Three Templars and a mage were approaching the camp, accompanied by a fifth person who was bound and gagged: a tall muscular man with dark brown hair and a very familiar scowl. 

_Carver?_ Samson thought dumbly. What the fuck was Carver doing here, and why were the conspirators treating him like a prisoner? Furthermore, Carver was wearing plain clothes instead of his Templar armour. Had they picked him up when he was on shore leave from the Gallows or something?

Thrask strode over to them, and Samson waited for Thrask to express his disapproval. But to Samson’s shock, Thrask nodded. “Thank you, my brothers,” he said to the Templars, and he gently took Carver by the arm to lead him into the camp. 

_What the bloody fuck?_ Samson thought. He dropped his mostly-eaten apple and silently followed Thrask and Carver, sticking to the edges of the camp so as not to attract their notice.

Thrask was speaking to Carver in a gentle tone. “I am sorry for this treatment, Ser Carver. But I assure you that it is essential.” He seated Carver on a flat boulder, then untied his gag. 

Carver smacked his lips in disgust, then scowled at Thrask. “What’s going on here? Why are you arresting me? It’s not like I was going to the Blooming Rose or something.” 

One of the Templars who had brought Carver in spoke up. “He was on his way to the Amell estate, Ser Thrask.”

“So what?” Carver said belligerently. “I was going to see my sister.”

The Templar frowned and gestured at him. “He admits to colluding against us with the Champion.”

“Colluding?” Carver said incredulously. “What are you talking about?”

Thrask sighed. “I’m sorry, Ser Carver, but you must stay here for a few days.”

Carver curled his lip — another very familiar expression. “Stay on the Wounded Coast? What for?” He scowled at Thrask. “Why are _you_ even here? You’re supposed to be at the Gallows!”

A woman’s voice interjected. “You have him? Excellent.”

Samson looked up. Grace, Thrask’s apostate accomplice, was walking over to them.

Carver eyed her suspiciously. “Who in the Maker’s name are you?”

“Be silent,” she said sharply. To Thrask she said, “Why is he conscious? He should be put to sleep.”

Carver’s eyes went wide. “What? No! Why? I didn’t even do anything! I was just walking!”

Thrask frowned at her. “Grace, there is no need for such treatment. Ser Carver is an innocent here.”

“He is a danger to us all if he continues to shout like this,” Grace pointed out. “He will draw attention to our activities. It would be safest for him and for us to put him to sleep.”

Carver scoffed. “Oh come off it. I’m not yelling.” 

She gave him a pointed look, and he glared at her. “What? I’m not yelling!” he yelled.

Thrask sighed again, then turned to Grace. “You may have a point.”

“What? No!” Carver protested. “No, just — let me go! Let me go right now.” He glared at Thrask. “When the Knight-Captain hears about this, he’s really not going to be happy.”

Grace folded her arms, and Thrask bowed his head to her. “All right. A sleeping potion. A mild one.” He gave Carver an apologetic look. “Ser Carver, I am sorry.”

“Oh, for— come on!” he complained.

Another Templar approached them and saluted to Thrask. “Ser, one of the mages had a question about their role in the coup, if you could.”

Thrask nodded and walked away, and Grace turned to the remaining Templar guard. “You can go. I will handle this.”

The Templar nodded and stepped back, and Carver struggled against his bonds. “Hey, come back!” he cried. “Why are you doing this? I never did anything to you!”

The guard ignored him and walked away. As soon as he was out of earshot, Grace smiled at Carver.

Samson’s gut twisted. Grace’s smile was the coldest and most humourless smile he’d ever seen. She stepped closer to Carver and lowered her voice, and Samson strained to hear her.

“I’ve been waiting for years for this,” she said.

“For what?” Carver demanded. “I don’t even know you.”

“You’re not the one who matters,” Grace said. “It’s your sister I want.”

Carver _tsk_ ed and rolled his eyes. “Of course it is. It’s always Roman, Roman, Roman…” He trailed off with a frown. “Wait, what do you mean, you’ve been waiting for years? For what?”

“Revenge,” Grace said.

Samson tensed, and Carver’s eyes widened. “Revenge? Against Roman? What did—” He broke off and scowled at her. “You know what, I don’t care what she did. You’re not touching my sister, you hear me?”

Grace huffed in amusement. “You can’t stop me. Nobody can.” She took a short knife from her belt.

Samson’s heart seized. Before he could move, she slashed a cut onto the back of her own hand. 

Carver recoiled, and Samson gaped at her. _Blood magic?_ he thought with a sinking heart. This woman was a blood mage? But if Grace was a blood mage, then…

His heart thumped. Maker’s balls, were all of the mages here actually blood mages?

“Hey, cut that out!” Carver squawked.

Grace was reaching for Carver’s forehead. She touched his forehead with her unbloodied hand, and a second later, he slumped bonelessly onto his side. 

Samson stared in horror at Carver. He wasn’t… was he _dead?_

Grace smirked, then looked over at the camp. “Alain,” she called. “Tend to this boy. Have him moved somewhere safe.”

A young blond mage ran over, and Samson relaxed. Carver wasn’t dead, then. But he was still unconscious by blood magic — blood magic that Thrask definitely wasn’t aware of.

 _Fuck,_ Samson thought desperately. He had to do something to help Roman’s brother. But he was just one man — one man with no special talents or powers, and without any real strength, not even with the bit of muscle he’d been putting on since he’d started living at Roman’s place. 

The mages were moving Carver’s unconscious body into the middle of the camp now, which meant no chance of sneaking Carver out — not that Samson could do that on his own, anyway. _Bloody fucking disaster,_ he thought morosely. And he’d just been thinking that this conspiracy was going well. He should’ve known better than to think anything could go the way it was supposed to. 

He sighed, then slowly sidled around the edge of the camp toward the camp’s exit. As usual, nobody paid him much attention, and in the space of a minute, he was scurrying away from the conspirators’ camp as fast as he could without attracting undue attention. 

_Have to get back to Kirkwall,_ he thought. As much as he’d been hoping this conspiracy would work, it was obvious that this group wasn’t what Samson had hoped it would be. Thrask clearly had no idea that Grace was a blood mage, and the whole lot of them were fine with taking innocents as hostages — they’d be no better at all if they took over the Gallows. Grace would have the whole place swimming in demons by the end of the week. 

He sighed, then picked up his speed. He had to get to the Gallows. Much as he hated to do it, he had to turn the conspirators over to Cullen. It was his only way to survive. If he didn’t turn them in, he’d go down with them for sure. 

_First things first, though,_ he thought. Before he saved his own sorry skin, he had to save Carver’s — or rather, he had to find someone stronger than him who could. 

Before he went to the Gallows, he had to find Roman.

###  ROMAN 

“Well, this is intriguing,” Varric said. “Just the inspiration I was hoping to find for my book.” He dramatically held up one hand as he followed Roman out of the Gallows. “At the dead of night, compelled by the Grand Enchanter, the Champion of Kirkwall slunk silently through the shadows to discover… what, exactly? Only time and stealth would tell.”

Anders smirked. “Did you come up with that just now?”

“Sure did, Blondie,” Varric said. “What do you think?”

He shrugged noncommittally. “Eh. Not bad, not your best.”

Varric sighed. “Everyone’s a critic.”

Isabela piped in. “Well, _I_ thought it was fantastic, Varric.”

“Thanks, Rivaini,” he said. “I’m still not lending you thirty royals, though.”

Isabela _tsk_ ed. “You’re such a spoilsport.”

Anders wrinkled his nose at her. “How can you call him a spoilsport when you’re the only person he allows to touch his chest hair?”

Isabela gave him a wicked grin. “Ooh, that was quite the scathing remark. Are you jealous?”

“Jealous of what?” Anders said. “Having my chest hair petted by you? Not exactly a rare experience for the men in Kirkwall. Or in this entire continent.”

She let out a throaty laugh. “Ah, so you _are_ jealous then. It’s all right, Anders, you’re still a man even without any chest hair.”

“I have chest hair,” Anders retorted. 

“Do you really?” Varric asked.

“Yes, all right?” Anders said defensively. “Maybe not as much as you, but…” He trailed off and frowned at Isabela. “You’ve seen my chest hair.”

“Have I?” Isabela said. Then she snapped her fingers. “Oh right, we slept together that one time in Denerim. I almost forgot.”

Roman snorted despite herself, and Isabela grinned at her. Anders, meanwhile, was giving Isabela a knowing look. “Nice try. You haven’t forgotten. You’ve commented before on my… electricity trick.”

Isabela gave him an appraising look. “All right, fine. I suppose that was pretty nice.”

“So you do remember seeing my chest hair, then,” Anders said.

Isabela rolled her eyes. “You were using your fingers for that trick. I was hardly looking at your chest, now was I?”

Varric chuckled, and Isabela looped her arm around his neck. “Varric, are you taking filthy mental notes for your book?”

“Maybe,” he said. “Is that a problem?”

“Not at all,” Isabela said. “Make sure you take special note of how powerful and threatening and buxom I am.”

“I’ll definitely point out one of those things,” Varric said dryly.

“Hawke, are you all right?” Anders said suddenly. 

“I’m fine,” Roman said. 

Anders frowned slightly. “You’re being quieter than usual. I thought you’d have jumped in to pick on my chest hair by now.”

“What chest hair?” she said.

Isabela snorted, and Anders rolled his eyes. “Ha ha. Seriously though, is anything on your mind?”

Roman shrugged. They piled onto the little enchanted rowboat they’d used to get from Kirkwall’s docks to the Gallows, and after they pushed off from the Gallows’s docks, she finally replied. “A conspiracy against Meredith. If that’s really what’s happening, I wouldn’t shed a fucking tear if it succeeded.”

Anders smirked. “Hear hear.”

“Look at you two little rebels,” Isabela said playfully.

Anders gave her a flat look. “What, you don’t want to see Meredith thrown out on her ass?”

“Would there be a party afterwards?” Isabela said. “Because if so, I’m all for it.”

Varric chuckled. “Always with the high priorities, Isabela.”

“Hey now,” she said. “I’m just keeping an eye on what’s important.”

They continued to chat and poke fun at each other as their little boat made its way back to Kirkwall’s docks, and Roman listened idly and made the occasional scathing remark as the opportunity arose. But in truth, she was feeling more relaxed about doing this little nighttime investigation for Orsino than any of the other favours he’d been asking her to do. If it did turn out that there was a conspiracy to overthrow Meredith, maybe she’d even lend a hand to the conspirators out of sheer spite.

Their little boat moored itself smoothly at the Kirkwall docks. They’d barely stepped off of the boat when Samson came striding through the crowd.

Roman stiffened with surprise. Not at seeing him on the docks per se, since he spent a lot of his time here, but because he was wearing armour. It wasn’t fancy armour by any means, but armour nonetheless: a brown padded gambeson and thick leather gloves. Not only that, but his expression was tight with tension.

He met her eye, and his face relaxed slightly as he hurried toward her. “There you are,” he said. “I was just at the house. Bodahn told me where you’d gone.”

“What’s going on? Why are you wearing that?” She eyed his gambeson curiously. “Did you get a job as a mercenary or something?”

“No,” said shortly. “Listen, Bird, Carver’s in a right mess of trouble.”

Her stomach jolted. “What?” she said sharply. “What do you mean?”

“He’s in trouble,” Samson repeated. “He’s been taken hostage, and he’s down on the Wounded Coast.”

Roman swelled with indignation, and Varric sighed. “Oh shit.”

“The Wounded Coast?” Anders said. “What’s–”

“Who the fuck’s taken him hostage?” Roman barked.

Samson grimaced and scratched his stubbly cheek. “The name ‘Grace’ ring a bell to you? Apostate, dark hair, you helped her a few years back?”

Roman wracked her brain. She’d helped so many apostates over the past nine some-odd years that it was hard to keep track.

Anders spoke up. “I remember her,” he said. “She and her group were supposed to be transfers from the Starkhaven Circle, but they’d just escaped the Templars and were trying to get away. Do you remember, Hawke?”

She raised her eyebrows as the face and name came together in her mind, and Varric snapped his fingers. “Oh yeah, that’s right,” he said. “They were holed up in a cave out on the Wounded Coast, and we tricked the Templars into thinking that we’d killed them so they could run away.”

“ _You_ tricked them, you mean,” Isabela said. “With that slick silver tongue of yours.”

Varric smiled at her, and Roman turned impatiently to Samson. “So what? What about her?” 

Samson sighed and scraped a gloved hand through his hair. “There’s a conspiracy in the Gallows. Bunch of Templars and mages plotting to take Meredith down a peg, get her ousted from the position of Knight-Commander, and Grace is one of them.”

Anders frowned. “How is that possible? She ran away, she wasn’t part of the Cir—”

Roman interrupted. “What the fuck does that have to do with my brother?”

“They’ve taken him prisoner,” Samson said. “I dunno why exactly, but it — this Grace woman said she wanted revenge.”

“Revenge for what?” Roman demanded. “We saved her sorry ass from getting dragged in and probably Tranquilized by the fucking Templars!”

“I don’t know, all right?” Samson said loudly. “I — that’s all I really know. She wants revenge on you, and she got them to kidnap Carver for it.”

Roman exhaled hard. “For fuck’s _fucking_ sake.”

Varric sighed. “Looks like Orsino was right on the money.”

Samson gave him a sharp look. “What’s that about Orsino?”

“He suspects a conspiracy,” Varric said. “He sent Hawke to find out what’s going on.”

“Fuck Orsino,” Roman exclaimed. “We need to get to the Wounded Coast. I have to get Carver out of there.” She took a step away from the docks. “If that fucking bitch thinks she can lay a hand on him—”

Samson grabbed her arm. “Hey Bird, hang on a second.”

“What?” she barked.

He lowered his voice. “She’s a blood mage, Grace is. She and… I actually don’t know about her other mage friends, but I suspect it.”

“So what if she’s a blood mage?” Roman hissed. “So am I!”

He tightened his grip on her arm. “She’s not like you,” he said urgently. “She’s cold, Roman, I saw it. Like a reptile behind those eyes of hers. You have to be careful.” He released her arm, then stepped into the boat she and the others had just vacated.

She blinked. “Hang on, what — where are you going? Come with us!”

“I can’t,” he said.

“What do you mean, you can’t?” she demanded. “Why not?”

“I have to go to the Gallows,” he said.

She curled her lip. “What the fuck for?”

Something flickered across his face for a second – almost like a flash of sadness, so fast that she must have imagined it. “I have to talk to Cullen,” he said.

She stared at him, totally nonplussed. “You’re… why? What the fuck do you want with Cullen?”

“It’s just something I’ve got to do, all right?” he snapped. “Quit harping at me.”

She recoiled and gave him a hard look. Why was he being so testy when she was just asking him a simple question? 

Then she shook it off. She didn’t have the time for bullshit right now. Carver was in trouble, and she needed to get to the Wounded Coast and rescue him before something happened. 

_I’m not losing another fucking family member,_ she thought furiously. “Fine,” she said coldly to Samson. “Do what you want, I don’t give a shit.” 

His scowl softened. “I’ll come to the Coast as soon as I talk to Cullen, all right?”

“Whatever,” she said, and she turned away and strode toward the city gates that led out toward the Wounded Coast. 

Anders, Isabela and Varric kept up with her, and for a while they jogged in silence. Once they were free from the crowds of the city, the others started talking. 

“How did Samson know all of this was happening?” Isabela wondered. 

Roman shrugged. She didn’t know and she didn’t particularly care right now, not when Carver’s life was at risk. 

Varric replied. “He said he heard Grace talking about revenge. He must have been on the Wounded Coast when they brought Carver in.”

“True,” Isabela said. “Ooh, so he must have been helping the conspirators then.”

“Or working against them,” Anders remarked. “He was a Templar, after all.”

“Shut up,” Roman said sharply. “He’s not a fucking Templar anymore.”

“Besides,” Varric pointed out, “he said that Templars and mages are working together for this conspiracy.”

Anders gave him a skeptical look. “You really believe that?”

“Stranger things have happened,” Varric said. “Practically every day, really.”

Anders scoffed. “Optimistic of you.”

“Pessimistic of _you_ ,” Isabela said. “Is your friend Justice feeling a Vengeance-y today?”

“This isn’t funny, Isabela,” Anders said sharply. “If there really is a conspiracy happening, we should be trying to help. Don’t you think so, Hawke?”

“I don’t care,” Roman shouted suddenly. “I don’t give a fuck about a conspiracy, all right? I don’t give a fuck. All I care—” She broke off and took a deep breath to control her temper, then gave them all a dark look. “If any of those fuckers lays a hand on my brother, I will fucking bleed the lot of them.”

There was a tense pause. Then Varric patted her elbow. “Fair enough, Hawke. Tell us what you want us to do when we get there, all right?”

She nodded brusquely, and they continued on their way to the Wounded Coast as quickly as they could. As they ran, she distracted herself from her worries about Carver by thinking about Samson instead. 

She couldn’t imagine why he was going to talk to Cullen. He must have been helping the conspirators; he’d have no reason not to, especially if their goal was to oust Meredith from the position of command. But if that was the case, why was he going to talk to Cullen? He didn’t even like Cullen. Besides, Cullen was Meredith’s number-one right-hand man. What business did Samson have with a self-righteous shit like him?

Her stomach roiled with uncertainty. Everything about this seemed fucking ominous, and she didn’t like it. 

Finally, at long last, they made it to the Wounded Coast, where they were promptly met by a mage and a Templar. As soon as they laid eyes on Roman, the Templar drew his sword, and the mage pulled out her staff. 

The Templar charged them, and Varric sighed as he grabbed his crossbow. “What’d we do this time?”

Roman had no time to reply; she was busy trying to break the mage’s shield while Isabela and Anders dealt with the Templar. Right when Roman was about to break the shield, the mage pulled a knife from her robes and slashed her arm. 

Roman wilted. This was clearly the blood magic Samson had been worried about. 

Then a hand burst out of the ground by Varric’s feet — a half-rotten, putrid hand.

Roman gaped at the hand as Varric dodged away from it. “Andraste’s ass,” he swore, and he levelled Bianca at the undead corpse that was hauling itself out of the ground. 

Roman shot a vicious blast of ice at the mage, then sprayed a gust of fire at the undead corpse. Then a second corpse burst from the ground, followed by a third. 

“Fucking fuck,” Roman hissed, and she threw a quick barrier over her companions. A few rough minutes later, the mage and the Templar were just as dead as their reanimated cronies, and Roman and the others were panting for breath.

Isabela sheathed her daggers and wiped her brow. “If I’d known we’d be fighting today, I’d have worn a better bra.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Anders panted. “You never wear a bra.”

“Wow, thank you for noticing,” she said cheerfully. 

Roman ignored them. As much as she hated to admit it, she could see why Samson was concerned about this kind of blood magic. Raising dead fucking bodies to fight for them? Roman wouldn’t exactly say she had scruples or whatever, but even she wouldn’t stoop to that. It was too fucking macabre, not to mention too close to home.

A memory of her mother crossed her mind. Her guts twisted, and she hastily shunted the memory away. She stooped down by the mage and started searching her pockets. “See if you can find information about where their base is,” she said to the others. “Otherwise we’ll be running around this fucking place all day.”

Unfortunately, neither the mage nor the Templar had any useful information on them. The mage, however, bore a number of scabbed-over wounds and scars of varying ages on her arms — not unlike Roman’s own finely scarred arms. 

_Longtime use of blood magic,_ she thought. And this was in a Circle mage. Did Orsino really not know about this, or had he just been feeding Roman the ‘no blood magic in the Circle’ party line all along?

Her temper simmered at the thought of Orsino lying to her face, but she tried to stay calm as she rose to her feet. “Let’s go,” she said brusquely. “Maybe we’ll go to that cave where that Grace bitch and her cronies hid out back when we first met them.” She looked at the others. “Do you guys remember where that was?”

Anders grimaced, but Isabela nodded. “I do. Every good captain’s got a sixth sense for navigation, you know.” 

They followed her along a winding path toward the cave in question, and they were forced to fight a dozen more Templars, mages, and undead bodies along the way, much to Roman’s disgruntlement. When they arrived at the old cave to find it empty, her temper only grew more taut.

She planted her fists on her hips. “Where the _fuck_ are these assholes? It’s not like this goddamned coastline is teeming with fucking hideouts spots.”

Varric grimaced slightly. “Actually, that is what this area is known for—” 

“You know what I mean,” Roman snapped. “Where the fuck else could they be?”

“The opposite direction, actually,” Samson said.

Roman whipped around. Samson was standing there, breathing heavily and looking as though he had run all the way here from Kirkwall. 

“Take us to their fucking base,” Roman demanded. “We’ve wasted enough time.”

“Come on then,” he said, and he started jogging along a path toward the southeast.

Roman fell in beside him. “What did you have to talk about with Cullen?”

He pursed his lips, and Roman glared at him. “Are you seriously not going to tell me?”

He rubbed his chin, then gave her a serious look. “You’re not going to like it.”

“That much is fucking obvious from your shifty behaviour,” she retorted. “What’s going on?”

He gazed at her for a second longer, then turned back to face the coast. “I’m trying to rejoin the Templars.”

She stopped short in shock, and Samson took her arm. “Come on, we have to—”

She wrested her arm from his grip. “Tell me I didn’t hear you right,” she said in a hard tone. “You are not rejoining the Templars.”

“What?” Anders said from behind them.

Samson shot him a cagey look, then scowled at Roman. “Can we do this later? Your brother’s lyin’ unconscious up ahead.”

Her stomach jolted, and she picked up her pace again to follow him. But as they ran, her mind was whirling. Rejoin the Templars? Why the fuck was he going to rejoin the Templars? He hated the Templars. Okay, maybe not the Templars, but he hated Meredith and being addicted to lyrium and the way they treated the mages in the Kirkwall Circle. Why the fucking hell did he want to join them again?

She glared at him. “Why—”

He sighed loudly. “Bloody hell, Bird, can we just focus on getting there?”

“Okay, okay,” she said loudly. 

They were all silent for a few seconds. Then they rounded a corner and ran right into a pair of Templars. 

They all stumbled back from each other. “Samson!” one of the Templars exclaimed. “Where — why are—”

His colleague gathered her wits more quickly. “He brought the Champion,” she spat. “He’s betraying our cause.” She drew her sword. 

Roman, Anders, Varric and Isabela pulled out their weapons, but Samson held up his hands. “Hang on a second there. Let’s talk about this, eh? The Champion’s just here for her brother.”

“A likely story,” the female Templar said snidely. “Thrask should have known better than to trust the likes of you.” She drew back her sword and swung it at his face. 

Roman hastily formed a fireball over her fist, but to her shock, Samson dodged the swing. Then, to her even greater shock, he unsheathed his own sword and deflected the Templar’s second blow. 

“Maker,” Anders exclaimed.

Roman gaped at Samson. He was holding his own against the younger female Templar, parrying her blows and swinging at her in the lull when her arm was down, and in less than a minute, she had a deep slice across her left thigh and a bloodied lip from a brisk strike of Samson’s pommel.

She took a step back and faltered thanks to her wounded thigh, then finally collapsed to her knees, and Samson held his sword poised over her. “Enough?” he asked.

She glared at him, then bowed her head, and Samson relaxed. “Ser Cullen is on his way,” he told them, and he sheathed his sword. “I suggest you turn yourselves over when they arrive. Maybe Meredith’ll be in a merciful mood.”

The male Templar wilted. “Ser Cullen? Maker’s breath…”

The woman glared at Samson. “Meredith is never in a merciful mood! We might as well be handing ourselves over for exile.”

Samson shrugged and tucked his hands in his pockets. “Could be. Or you could stick with Thrask and hand yourselves over to a certain death.”

“What do you mean by that?” the woman demanded.

Samson waved at Roman. “You knew about the plans to abduct the Champion’s brother, didn’t you?”

Roman took an aggressive step forward. “Did you know about this?” she snarled. “If you did, I’ll—” 

The woman’s face went blank with apprehension, and the male Templar held up a hand. “We didn’t — I mean, not directly,” he stammered. “We didn’t know there’d be a kidnapping, promise. B-but Grace and the others, they w-were worried you’d, er, get involved…”

Roman swelled with rage, and Samson took a small step in front of her. “There’s your choices, then,” he said pleasantly to the Templars. “Turn yourselves in to Ser Cullen, or face the Champion’s wrath. What’ll you be picking?”

“Ser Cullen,” the male Templars said promptly. “Right, Lise?” He prodded his companion.

She continued to glower at Samson, but she nodded, and Samson nodded as well. “Right then,” he said. “Stay here, eh? Tell Ser Cullen where to find us.” He jerked his chin at Roman, and they continued on their way.

Anders sighed. “We should have killed them.”

Varric glanced at him. “What, seriously?”

“Yes,” Anders said somberly. “Mark my words, they’ll be a problem in the future.” He sighed again. “Maybe not today, but… someday.”

Roman ignored him and frowned at Samson. “What the hell was that?” she said quietly.

“What the hell was what?” he said.

“That.” She gestured vaguely behind them. “The talking-them-down stuff, and the ‘Ser Cullen’ ass-licking bullshit. And you using that sword.” She eyed his sword suspiciously. “I’ve never seen you do that before.”

He huffed in amusement. “You impressed by my sword-swinging, Bird?”

She didn’t laugh. His sword technique was shockingly good, but that wasn’t her point. She stared hard at him until his smile melted away.

He looked away from her once more. “I have to do this,” he said. “I have to go back to the Order.”

“Why?” she demanded.

“I can’t keep living off you and doing nothing for the rest of my life,” he said.

“So you’re going to go back to the Templars instead?” she demanded. “The group who threw you out and basically left you for dead?”

“I want the powers back, all right?” he snapped. 

She raised her eyebrows, and he dragged a hand through his hair. “I… if I get the proper lyrium in my system, I can be a proper Templar. I can be strong again.”

“I never took you for the power-hungry type,” she said coldly.

“I’m not,” he said angrily. “That’s not what I mean. Besides, look who’s talking ‘ere.”

“What are you talking about?” she said in annoyance.

He lowered his voice. “You and the blood magic. You know it’s a bad idea, but you do it anyway for the power.”

“I’m in control of my own fucking blood, Samson,” she retorted. “You said yourself that the lyrium is a leash. _You_ told me that!”

“I know what I said, all right?” he said roughly. “But—”

She cut him off. “The Templars hate people like me. They want to fucking kill and torture people like me! Is that — why—”

“I’m doing this for you,” he said loudly. 

She stopped in her tracks and stared at him incredulously. “For me? How does that make any fucking sense?”

He gestured angrily at her. “You’re always going on about how there’s going to be a war and I have to pick a side, and—”

“So you’re picking the Templars?” she yelled. “Is that what this is? After everything we’ve — after all of — you’re picking _them?_ ”

“No, you daft cow,” he yelled back. “I — it’s — look, if I’m with them, I can listen better when things start happening. I can protect you—”

“I don’t need your fucking protection!” she shouted. “I don’t need anyone’s protection! What I need is for the Templars and the Circles and the Chantry to fucking crash and burn, and you’re joining them after everything they did to you?”

“I need to be better than this,” he bellowed.  
She recoiled. “Better than what?”

“Better than a run-down worthless beggar living for his next whiff of the dust,” he yelled.

“You _are_ better than that, you fucking idiot!” she snapped. “What the fuck have I been saying to you for years? You are better than that!”

He stepped close to her — so close that she could smell the twang of lyrium on his breath. “You are the only person who thinks that, Roman.”

She _tsk_ ed and looked away, but he took her chin in a firm grip and forced her to look at him. “I mean that, Bird,” he said in low voice. “You are the only one in all of bloody Thedas who thinks I’m worth somethin’. And I’m including myself in that count. You are the only one who sees somethin’ worthwhile in me.”

Roman stared at him with a pounding feeling behind her eyes. Then Varric coughed delicately. “Uh, I don’t want to interrupt, but…”

Varric was right. Roman shoved Samson’s hand away from her face and stepped back from him. “Take us to my brother,” she said coldly.

He stared hard at her for a second longer, then turned and started jogging away, and they all followed him in silence. A couple of minutes later, they came over a short hill to find the conspirators’ camp tucked against a rocky ridge by the coastline. 

The camp was populated by about fifteen people, a mixture of mages and Templars, but Roman didn’t care. She could see Carver lying unconscious and bound on his side with two mages kneeling at his side, and that was all she cared about.

“Fucking assholes,” she hissed, and she pulled her staff from her back. 

“Bird—” Samson started to say, but Roman was already running toward the camp with Varric, Anders and Isabela at her heels. By the time she reached the camp, half of the conspirators were standing in a defensive line with their weapons drawn.

She didn’t give a fuck about them. Carver was lying unconscious and tied up, and _someone_ was going to pay.

“Where the fuck is Grace?” she yelled.

A Templar stepped forward: Thrask, who was supposedly in charge of this conspiracy. “I suppose it was too much to hope that you wouldn’t have come here,” he said sadly. “Though I can’t understand why you side with Meredith now.”

“Are you fucking stupid?” she snapped. “I’m not siding with Meredith. She’s a fucking bitch who blackmails me into doing errands for her when really what she wants is to make me Tranquil.” She took a threatening step closer to him. “Why the fuck did you abduct my brother?”

His face blanked with surprise, then softened with apology. “It appears that we were misinformed. I should’ve known you would recognize the threat Meredith poses.”

“Yeah, you were misinformed,” she snapped. “And you’ll be dead in five seconds if you don’t let my brother go.”

A flash of annoyance crossed his face, replaced quickly by politeness. He bowed his head to her. “I am sorry for any distress we caused you or your brother,” he said, and he turned to a nearby mage. “Let the boy go.”

“That was easy,” Isabela muttered.

“No!” a sharp woman’s voice interrupted, and the owner of the voice pushed her way through the defensive line to stand beside Thrask.

It was Grace, and she was scowling. “The boy dies,” she announced. “Then the Champion.”

“Stand down, Grace,” Thrask commanded. “We will not kill an innocent to achieve our ends. It gains us nothing to become Meredith.”

“Meredith!” she spat. “What do I care for Meredith? I’m here for the Champion.”

Roman took an aggressive step forward. “Let my brother go, you _bitch_ ,” she snarled.

Grace glared at her. “You killed Decimus, the best man I have ever met! But I learned all he had to teach.”

Thrask’s face fell. “Grace. You don’t mean…blood magic?”

Grace ignored him and called out to one of the mages standing guard by Carver. “Alain, kill the hostage.”

Roman lit a ball of fire over her palm. “Don’t you fucking dare,” she spat.

Alain’s face wavered with uncertainty. “Grace, this isn’t right. The Champion tried to help us.”

Grace sneered. “If you’re too squeamish, I’ll do it myself.” She pulled a dagger from her robes and plunged it into her own gut, and her eyes instantly flared a bright crimson red. 

Isabela and Anders recoiled, and Varric sighed. “Oh shit.” 

_Fuck,_ Roman thought. She’d have to use blood magic herself now to take Grace down, especially since she was already tired from fighting the other conspirators and their fucking undead during the run here. Not exactly something she wanted to do in front of a bunch of fucking Templars, but she had no choice. 

“Grace!” Thrask barked. “Restrain yourself!”

Grace twisted her wrist, and Thrask’s neck snapped. 

An uproar of horrified cries and exclamations ensued. Roman bit the inside of her cheek hard, and the taste of iron flooded her mouth, followed by a heady swelling of power in her veins. Without hesitation, she channeled the power into a narrow pulse aimed at the center of Grace’s forehead.

The pulse of magic blasted straight through Grace’s skull with a hair-raising flash of light. A second later, Grace lifelessly dropped to the ground beside Thrask’s murdered corpse.

Another cry of horror rose from the conspirators, and Roman spun toward them. “Whoever lays a hand on Carver will get the same,” she snarled. 

For a long moment, no one replied. Then Alain stepped forward. “Ser Hawke, I’m sorry about all of this,” he said shakily. “G-grace used blood magic to hold your brother. There’s no other way to w-wake him up.”

She shoved her way through the conspirators and kneeled at Carver’s side. Alain hurried over and lowered a knife toward his arm, but Roman waved him off. 

“Give me that,” she said. “I’ll do it.” She took his knife and cut a tiny wound on her forearm, then pressed her palm to Carver’s forehead. 

He sat up so abruptly that he almost headbutted her. “What!” he blurted, and he looked around wildly. “Don’t touch me! Leave my sister out of…” He trailed off as his eyes lit on her. 

His jaw dropped, and she relaxed at the sight of his familiar idiotic expression. “You okay?” she said brusquely. 

He exhaled heavily. “Thank the Maker _you’re_ okay,” he replied. 

“Thank the Maker nothing,” she retorted. “It was your fucking Templar buddies who brought you here. I guess your precious Maker condones kidnapping.” She glared at the conspirators, then blinked in surprise. They were gathered around Samson now, who seemed to be talking urgently to them.

Carver sighed. “Good to see you too, sister.”

She shot him an annoyed look. Then Cullen appeared at the top of the ridge with a contingent of Templars at his back. 

Carver sighed in relief as he rose to his feet. “Good,” he said. “Time for some just desserts to be served.” 

Roman scoffed. “Yeah, if you call ‘mage-hating bigotry’ just desserts.”

Carver sighed loudly. “Why do I even bother talking to you?”

“You tell me,” Roman said snidely.

He opened his mouth to retort, but Cullen’s strident voice interrupted. “Champion,” he said with a stiff nod to Roman. “Samson never said you were involved in this. I trust you were here to stop these traitors, not join them?”

Roman glared at him, a scathing retort at the ready, but Alain replied before she could speak. “The Champion had no part in this, serrah. She only wanted to rescue her brother.”

Cullen pursed his lips, then waved dismissively to his Templar cronies. “Put the mage to questioning.”

“Questioning?” Roman said archly. “You mean torture?”

Alain cringed, but Roman pressed on. “Alain stood up to this bitch when she tried to kill Carver.” She jerked her chin at Grace’s crumpled corpse.

Cullen’s lips thinned even more. “You mean he was one of them, save for a convenient last minute change of heart.”

Incensed, Roman took an angry step toward him. “You—”

Varric suddenly stepped in front of her. “Listen, Curly, the kid did good,” he said calmly. “He really tried hard to talk Grace down. We all saw it.” He looked askance at Anders and Isabela, who also nodded. 

Cullen frowned at him, then sighed. “All right. I’ll encourage Meredith to take it easy on him. Everyone else here is under arrest.”

There was a general murmur of fear and discontent, and Samson spoke up. “Everyone’s going to cooperate, Ser Cullen. Don’t you worry about that.” He glanced at the conspirators, and to Roman’s surprise — and bemusement — they actually subsided and nodded. 

She eyed Samson with an odd writhing feeling in her chest. It was so fucking _odd_ to see him like this — wearing armour and using a sword and talking people down and acting like… almost like a leader or something. 

Cullen huffed, then turned to Hawke once more. “As you are the Champion of Kirkwall, I feel obligated to ask for your recommendations, whether I wish to or not,” he said stiffly. “Are there any suggestions you would have me bring to Meredith?”

 _How about suggesting that she fall onto her own fucking sword?_ Roman thought, but she somehow managed to bite her tongue. “How about _not_ torturing and killing everyone involved here tonight?” she said instead. 

He frowned. “They attempted treason against the Templar Order and thereby the Chantry.”

She took a breath to control her fraying temper. “They tried to get rid of an overzealous tyrant who has no fucking right to act in the capacity of the viscount in this city,” she said as calmly as she could. She folded her arms and gave him a frank look. “Don’t pretend they’re the only ones who are unhappy with the way Meredith runs things. You know that’s not the case.”

He stared hard at her for a moment, then sighed. “Perhaps some of these mages might still be saved.”

“Nice of you,” she said scathingly. 

He scowled at her, then turned away. “All right. If that’s all—”

“Wait,” she said.

Cullen turned back and raised his eyebrows expectantly, and Roman clenched her jaw. She couldn’t believe she was about to do this. Even the thought of saying what she was about to say made her want to vomit. But if it was really what Samson wanted… 

She swallowed hard, then looked Cullen in the eye. “You should make Samson a Templar again.”

Samson’s jaw dropped with surprise, but Roman refused to look him in the eye; her own eyes were feeling hot all of a sudden, and she was afraid of what might happen if she met his gaze. 

She stared fixedly at Cullen. “You wouldn’t know about this conspiracy if not for Samson,” she said. “I saw him talking the conspirators into peacefully turning themselves over to you. You need someone like him in your ranks.”

Cullen’s expression softened slightly. “True,” he said. Then he turned to Samson. “You have done us a great service. Do you wish to take up the shield once more?”

Samson’s eyes widened. “Absolutely, Knight-Captain sir.”

“Then I’ll see what I can do,” Cullen said. “Join me at the Gallows as soon as you can.”

Samson saluted him. “Yes sir — thank you, sir.”

Cullen nodded sharply, then turned to Carver. “Ser Carver, report to the Gallows immediately. We will require your witness testimony during the investigation.” 

Carver straightened and saluted him. Cullen walked away with the rest of his men, and Carver turned to Roman.

He awkwardly scratched the back of his neck. “Well, I, er, have to go. Thanks for the, um, rescue.”

“Just watch your back, all right?” she said bluntly. “Those fuckers are dangerous.”

He grunted. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, he gave her an awkward hug. 

Roman stiffened with surprise, then gingerly patted his arm. He released her and hurried away, leaving her alone with Anders, Varric, Isabela and Samson.

Samson was gazing at her, but she didn’t want to meet his eye. She turned to Varric, Isabela and Anders instead, then immediately regretted looking at them as well: they were all studying her with varying degrees of wariness and sympathy.

All of a sudden, her eyes were burning and her chest felt heavy, and she hated it. “Let’s go,” she said gruffly. “I’m sick of this fucking place.” She started toward the path back to Kirkwall.

Samson took her arm. “Bird, listen—”

She twisted her arm out of his grip. “Don’t touch me,” she hissed. “Don’t fucking talk to me. I’m — just — leave me alone.” Without waiting for an answer, she strode away along the path back to the city with Anders, Isabela and Varric close behind. 

The others chatted amongst themselves as they walked back to Kirkwall, but their talk was noticeably subdued. By the time they made it back to Lowtown, it was late afternoon, and the ache in Roman’s chest felt like it was filling her entire rib cage.

Varric raised his eyebrows. “So. Drinks at the Hanged Man?” 

“I’m up for it,” Anders said, and he gave Roman an expectant look.

“No,” she said bluntly.

Isabela elbowed her gently. “Want to go to the Blooming Rose with me? My treat.”

“No,” Roman said again, and she stepped away from them. “I’m going home.”

“You want some company?” Varric asked. “We’ll drop by later.”

“No,” she said sharply. “I want to be alone.” This wasn’t strictly true, but what she really wanted was… fuck, she couldn’t even think about what she wanted, because there was no point. 

Fuck’s fucking sake, she was going to cry. She turned away from their stupid sympathetic faces and ran for the mansion in Hightown. 

She ran at full speed, hoping the fatigue and the burning of her lungs and limbs would help block out the pain in her chest, but to no avail. With every pounding footstep, she could feel the terrible ache in her chest — this empty yawning pit of pain that she had never wanted to feel, but that she’d stupidly made herself vulnerable to by letting Samson in. 

She’d let Samson into her bed and into her house, telling herself all the while that that’s all it was, when really what she’d done was allow him to… to get close. Maker’s balls, she’d allowed him to get close. To slither his way into parts of her that she’d _never_ meant to share for fear of this exact situation. 

_He wants to be a Templar more than he wants to be with me,_ she thought. And that thought was so painful that it was fucking unbearable.

She shoved open the door of the mansion and slammed it shut, then strode into the kitchen. Orana was stirring a pot on the stove, but she shirked against the counter as Roman stormed in.

“M-mistress — I mean, Miz Hawke,” she stammered. “Is — are you—”

“I’m fine,” she said roughly. She reached into the cupboard above the stove and grabbed the first bottle of liquor she could find, then bolted upstairs to her bedroom and slammed the door. 

The backs of her eyes were pulsing and there was a lump swelling in her throat, but Roman refused to give in. There was no way she was going to fucking cry. If she cried about Samson, then that would mean this mattered — that _he_ mattered, and she couldn’t let him matter, not when he was leaving her.

She wrestled the cork out of the half-empty bottle of whiskey. _Fucking asshole,_ she thought, and she drank half the whiskey in four gulps. 

She slammed the bottle onto her dressing table, then tore off her filthy clothes and took the bottle into the bathroom. She ran a bath and prowled restlessly around the bathroom as the tub filled up, then stepped into the tub with her whiskey and continued to drink.

When the bottle was empty, she dropped it on the floor and laid her head back against the back of the tub. The room was spinning slightly and the ache in her chest felt a little duller, which made it easier to remind herself of the truth, which was that Samson didn’t matter. 

He didn’t matter. He was just a good fuck, that’s all. And she was letting him live here because she felt sorry for him, not because she— 

Her heart twisted, and she swallowed hard. _Shut the fuck up,_ she told herself. She didn’t _care_ about Samson. She just liked having him around so she could fuck him when she felt like it, that was all. That’s all this had ever been.

She picked up her glass bottle of shampoo, then promptly dropped it on her knee in the bath. “Shit,” she blurted, and she rubbed her smarting knee. Why the fuck did this bottle have to be so slippery? 

She poured some shampoo into her hand, then set the bottle on the floor by the bath and started washing her hair, but when some shampoo got into her eye, it only made her madder. She rubbed her eyes, but — for fuck’s sake, there was still shampoo on her hands. 

“Fuck!” she yelled. “Fucking Maker’s fucking c-cock and balls…” She roughly rinsed her hair and face, but there were tears streaming from her eyes now.

 _Fucking shampoo,_ she thought. She rinsed her face until the shampoo-induced tears had stopped, then shoved her hair back and leaned her head back against the tub once more.

She closed her eyes. The room was spinning leisurely, and she was finally starting to feel nice and numb.

She lay in the bath for a while and savoured the feeling of not feeling much of anything. Aside from the bathwater, that was, which was nice and hot. Nice and hot and soothing, really, and she was pretty fucking tired from that unexpected race across the fucking Wounded Coast. Maybe she’d just take a little nap. 

*******************************************

“Roman.”

She jolted awake. Then someone’s hand roughly grabbed her arm. 

“Get off,” she blurted instinctively. “Get the fuck off!” She clawed wildly at the hand on her arm.

Samson hissed in pain but didn’t let her go. “Bloody wildcat,” he muttered. “Get out of the damned tub, will you?” He grasped her other arm and pulled her upright. 

She gaped at him as she stumbled out of the tub. “What are you—” Then it all came back to her like a sledgehammer to her brain. The Wounded Coast, the conspiracy, Carver being taken hostage, Samson rejoining the Templars— 

A rush of rage pulsed through her chest, and she struggled to break his grip on her arms. “Don’t fucking touch me,” she yelled, and she pushed him away. “What are you doing here? Go to the fucking Gallows where you belong.” She stepped toward the towel rack, then slipped in a puddle of spilled shampoo.

She gasped, but Samson grabbed her before she could fall. “Maker’s fucking balls,” he hissed. “What were you thinking, getting drunk in the bath?”

“What do you care?” she yelled. “You don’t fucking live here anymore.” She struggled to stand on her own two feet, then grabbed a towel and roughly wrapped it around herself.

“Is this what you’ll be doing when I go, then?” he said. “Turning back into a bloody drunk?”

“I’m not a fucking drunk!” she yelled. “And what the fuck do you care what I do?”

He glared wordlessly at her. His chest was rising and falling with angry breaths, and the fact that he was angry only made Roman angrier. What right did he have to be angry when he was the one who was leaving?

She shoved past him. “Get out of my house,” she spat.

He grabbed her arm and roughly pulled her against his chest, and she gasped in surprise. “Hey—”

He kissed her hard, and Roman instinctively parted her lips for his tongue — his bitter tongue that tasted faintly and familiarly of lyrium. His whiskers were scratchy against her face and his lips were firm as they pried hers apart, and in this moment as he stroked her tongue with his, she had never hated him more. 

She bit his tongue, and he pulled away with a gasp of pain. Then Roman slapped him.

He stumbled back and grabbed his face, then turned back to face her with a venomous glare, and Roman glared back at him. For a second, they just stared at each other in a loaded silence, and she was so furious that she didn’t give a fuck that her towel had slipped off. 

“Get out of my house,” she said quietly. 

“No,” he said. 

Her blood pulsed with rage. She took an aggressive step toward him. “I said _get the fuck out._ ”

“And I said no,” he said in a hard voice.

An incredulous snarl of a laugh burst from her lips. She strode up to him and shoved him in the chest. “I said get out!” she yelled.

He grabbed her wrists. “And I said no,” he snapped. “I’m not leaving here until you calm down.”

Calm down? He wanted her to calm down? He was going back to the fucking Templars, and he wanted her to _calm down?_

She struggled to pull her wrists from his grip, then lunged at him and bit his neck, and he jerked his head away from her with another pained gasp. “For fuck’s sake, Bird—” 

She wrested one hand from his grip and clawed at his gambeson, incensed by how many layers of clothes he was wearing. How dare he be wearing armour, like he was going to be going into battles and putting himself in danger and fighting instead of staying here where he was safe and nobody would try to kill him? How fucking _dare_ he?

“I hate you,” she spat. “I hate you, I hate you—”

He exhaled hard, then abruptly scooped her up, and she was too shocked to fight him off. He strode into the bedroom and tossed her down on the bed, and she struggled to sit upright.

“Get out,” she yelled. “Get out of my house!”

He raised his eyebrows. “Is that really what you want?” he said. “You want me to leave?”

“Yes, I want you to fucking leave,” she snarled.

“Really?” he said. “Because I will. If you tell me one more time to leave, I’ll leave.”

She glared at him, enraged by the threat in his tone, then rose to her knees. “I fucking hate you,” she said, slowly and carefully so he would really hear her.

He gave her a chiding look, then scoffed. “Yeah, I’ve heard that before,” he said. Then he started unbuckling his gambeson.

An unwanted wave of heat pulsed between her legs. She glared at him as he took off the gambeson, and when he sat on the edge of the bed beside her, she slapped him. 

He flinched, then slowly rubbed his cheek. “Bird…” 

He sounded tired now. But he had no fucking right to sound so tired, not when he was the one who was leaving her. 

She raised her hand to slap him again, and he grabbed her wrist. “Stop it!” he barked. “Don’t you fucking hit me again, Roman, I mean it.”

She paused, stilled by the hardness of his tone. Then she crawled onto his lap and reached for the laces of his trousers. 

He exhaled hard and grabbed her hands. “For Maker’s bloody sake, Bird, I didn’t come here for this.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Are you saying no?”

He hesitated, and Roman sneered at him. He was a man, and she was a naked woman on top of him. Of course he wasn’t going to say no. 

She pulled her hands from his, then abruptly rubbed his groin through his trousers, and his lips parted on a pleasured gasp. Then Roman leaned in and nipped his earlobe. “Are you saying no?” she murmured.

He swallowed hard, then shook his head. “No. I mean — er, yes to, uh… y-you can keep going—” 

She bit his neck, then pressed her lips to his ear again. “Then stop fucking talking,” she hissed, and she continued unlacing his trousers. 

He slid his hand over her hip and up her back, but she ignored his touch and focused on his trousers. When they were finally unlaced, she shoved at his chest. 

“Lie back and take off your trousers,” she said. 

He obeyed her, pulling off his shirt and shuffling his trousers down to his knees as he shifted onto the bed, and Roman straddled him. She stroked his cock once, then positioned herself over him and came down on his lap.

He grunted and grabbed her hips, and she started fucking him in a quick rhythm. His face was twisted with pleasure, but Roman just studied him coldly as she rode him. There was nothing special about his face, after all, and nothing special about his cock inside of her. He was just a man, just another man who came and went in her life like all the others she’d fucked and cast aside before, so it wouldn’t matter when he left after this. 

She rested her palms on his abdomen for balance and continued to fuck him. Then he opened his eyes and looked at her. “What’s going on, Bird?” he panted.

“Nothing,” she said, and she continued to fuck him. 

He pushed himself upright on one elbow. “Stop, stop,” he said breathlessly, and he gripped her hip. 

She scowled at him. “What? What’s wrong with you?”

He raised his eyebrows. “What’s wrong with _me?_ You’re the one acting like a third-rate whore.”

She recoiled. “Ex _cuse_ me?”

He winced. “I just mean — balls. I just meant that you’re acting strange.”

She curled her lip. “How do you want me to act?”

“Maybe like you actually _want_ to be bouncing on my knob,” he said wryly. He gently pushed her off, then gave her a careful look. “You doin’ this because you think I want it?”

“No,” she said harshly. “I don’t give a fuck what you want.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Then why’d you tell Cullen to take me back?”

Her heart twisted, and she stood up. “Look, if you don’t want to fuck me, then—”

He grabbed her hand. “I didn't say that.”

“Then what do you want?” she snapped. “I don’t know what you fucking want from me.”

He gave her a wry look. “For starters, I want you to fuck me like you’re not just going through the motions.”

“For starters?” she said archly. “Do you have a list of demands or some shit?”

He smirked. “Why? Are you taking requests?”

She scoffed. “Fuck you.”

“Get your bony ass back here and fuck me yourself,” he said.

She stared at him with a fresh rising of anger in her chest. How dare he be smiling and making clever remarks at a time like this?

“I hate you,” she spat.

His smile fell away, and he rose from the bed. “You know what, I’m gettin’ real tired of hearing you say that.”

She folded her arms belligerently as he approached her. “If you don’t like it, leave.”

He suddenly reached out and gripped her throat, and she gasped in shock. Then he stepped close to her — close enough that his lyrium-scented breath fanned across her lips. 

“If you tell me to leave one more time, I will,” he said quietly. 

She glared silently at him, her heart pounding her ears and her throat and between her legs. A smug little smirk lifted the corner of his lips. “Didn’t think so,” he said. He guided her over to the bed with his hand on her throat, then pushed her down onto the bed. 

He released her throat and stroked his cock. “Get on your hands and knees.”

She tore her eyes from his cock up to his face. “Don’t tell me—”

“Get on your hands and knees,” he barked. “Right now.”

She recoiled from him, even as a heady pulse of lust rippled through her abdomen. “Don’t tell me what to do!”

He stepped closer to her and slowly ran his fist along his cock. “Get on your hands and knees right now, or I _will_ leave.”

A fine drop of eagerness was leaking from the tip of his cock. Roman stared at his cock with a combination of greed and rage, then finally rolled onto her hands and knees. 

She glared at him. “I hate you,” she told him.

He curled his lip, then crawled onto the bed behind her and placed his palm in the center of her back. “Get down,” he said, and he pushed her down toward the bed. “Let me see this ass of yours.”

She permitted him to push her down so her cheek was flush to the bed. “I hate—” 

He spanked her suddenly, and she gasped. Then he smoothed his palm over her buttock. “I don’t want to hear that anymore, Bird,” he said harshly. “I don’t want to hear it. You understand me?”

His palm was so callused and rough, and the feel of it stroking her skin so gently only enraged her further. She dragged in a breath. “I hate you,” she said loudly. “I hate you—”

He spanked her again and a third time, and Roman arched and mewled. Then he caressed her stinging skin once more. “You don’t hate me,” he crooned. “You want me bad, don’t you?”

She shook her head tightly, even as she tried to push her ass back toward his hand. “No,” she gasped. “I don’t fucking want you.”

“Yes you do,” he said. “You like it when I spank you and boss you around.”

“No I don’t!” she yelled. 

He spanked her hard, then suddenly bit her buttock, and she jolted and cried out ecstatically. Then Samson dragged his tongue between her legs.

She gasped with shock and pleasure. Samson lapped at her wetness again, then traced his tongue over her clit, and still his callused palm was smoothing over her smarting asscheek, stimulating her sensitized skin and driving her closer to her climax.

He spanked her again, this time while licking her clit, and she cried out and clenched her fists in the sheets. Then Samson stopped licking her and chuckled. “There’s my little wildcat.”

“I’m not a fucking wildcat!” she snarled.

“Oh yes you are,” he taunted. “A little wildcat in heat who wants to be fucked.” He dipped his head down again and lapped hungrily at her pussy.

Roman moaned and rolled her hips back toward his mouth, too busy enjoying the feeling of his mouth between her legs to remember her anger. He licked and kissed her folds before returning his attention to her clit, and she clenched her fingers in the sheets and held her breath, and in the space of a few frenzied heartbeats, her climax burst. 

She cried out and twisted her hands convulsively in the sheets. Then Samson’s hand was on her hip, and his cock was nudging her entrance.

She gasped and writhed her hips. “F-fuck me—”

He thrust into her in one hard stroke all the way to the hilt, and she let out a strangled cry. Samson hissed with pleasure, then slowly pulled out of her.

She moaned and twisted her hips. “Fuck me faster, come on—”

He slid back inside of her slowly, and she moaned. Then, with his cock fully hilted, he reached up and stroked her hair.

Roman’s breath stuttered at the softness of the gesture. Then he began gathering her hair in his hands. 

A rush of excitement pulsed through her limbs. Samson wound her hair around his fist, then rested his other hand on her hip and pulled her hair slowly. 

She gasped and craned her head back toward his hand. Then he slowly thrust into her again. “Come for me, Bird,” he commanded. 

She burst out a cry, then dragged in a lungful of air. “Fuck you,” she said breathlessly. 

He ignored her and pulled out of her slowly. “Come for me, or I won’t fuck you fast the way you like,” he threatened, and he slowly slid inside of her once more.

She gasped and squeezed her eyes shut. It was so intense when he took her slowly like this, like he was carefully stretching every tight inch of her and making her body thrill around his length, striking her every sensitive nerve thanks to the undignified submissive arching of her spine, and she breathed raggedly as Samson continued to fuck her deep and slow.

He pulled out of her, then pressed slowly inside of her once more, and the spiralling tension in her body suddenly exploded, pounding through her limbs and her abdomen and her pussy with even more strength than before. It felt so fucking good, this kind of deep-body climax that she’d never had with anyone else— 

Before Roman knew what was happening, before she could stop it, she was sobbing. 

Samson froze. “Roman, are you—”

“Fuck me!” she screamed. She sobbed again, then pounded her fist on the mattress. “Fuck me, fuck me hard, right now—!”

He slammed into her and pulled her hair, and then he was fucking her in a frenzied rhythm with one hand on her hip and the other still coiled in her hair, and Roman could barely even breathe. It felt so fucking good, the sweet friction of his cock and the sweet pain of his fingers in her hair — so fucking fulfilling, so much better than it had ever felt with anyone else… 

That terrible thudding ache swelled in her chest. Then Samson pulled hard on her hair.

She gasped in pain, and Samson spanked her. “Up on your hands, Bird,” he commanded. 

She shakily pushed herself up onto her hands, unable to disobey with his hand coiled in her hair. Then he released her hair and fell forward so she was trapped between his arms with his chest pressed to her spine. 

He reached around her and grabbed her throat and slammed into her hard, and she burst out an ecstatic cry. Samson was still fucking her hard and fast, but his teeth were pressing into her shoulder and his breathy moans were gusting hotly across her skin, and Roman felt tears dripping down her face. 

_Damn it,_ she thought furiously, but she couldn’t do anything about the tears, not with her hands gripping the mattress. Samson slammed into her jerkily, then groaned fitfully and bit her shoulder hard, and Roman clenched her jaw to silence herself as he shuddered and gasped in his climax. 

He breathed hard against her back for a moment before lifting his head. He released her throat, then smoothed his palm gently over her hair. “You all right?” he panted. “Did I hurt you?”

She pushed him off. “You didn’t fucking hurt me,” she said brusquely. “I’m fine.” She crawled off of the bed and made her way to the bathroom without looking at him. 

She peed and cleaned up, then splashed her face with cold water to try and hide the fact that she’d cried like a little bitch during sex. When she returned to the bedroom, it was to find Samson lounging naked in her bed like he usually did. 

Her heart faltered. She stared at him for a second, then picked up her dressing gown. “Why are you still here?” she said coldly as she put on her dressing gown. “Go to the Gallows where you belong.”

“I don’t start until tomorrow,” he said. He shifted over in the bed to give her the warm side, just like he always did. 

Like he’d no longer be doing after tonight, since he was leaving her for the Templars.

Fuck, her chest was aching again. She folded her arms defensively, and Samson gave her a chiding look. “Bird, just get over here.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” she snapped.

He raised one eyebrow, but Roman refused to budge. Finally he sat up with a sigh. “I meant to tell you sooner,” he said in a softer tone. “I didn’t… it wasn’t supposed to happen so sudden like this.”

Her stomach dropped. “Are you saying you’ve been planning this for a while?”

He rubbed his forehead, then dragged his fingers through his hair. “I’ve been… thinking about it for a while, yeah,” he said slowly.

“A while meaning how long?”

“A few months,” he said quietly. 

A fresh spark of anger flickered to life in her gut. “You’ve been thinking about this for months and you didn’t tell me?”

“It wasn’t worth talking about until I knew what I was doing,” he said.

“And how long have you known _that?_ ” she said. “Since when did you know for sure that you were going to do this?”

He sighed heavily. “A couple weeks.”

The anger in her gut flared. “A couple weeks,” she repeated. “You—” She broke off and paced around at the foot of the bed to try and control her temper, but it was no good; this was too much, too much betrayal packed into a single day — no, into a single conversation.

She spun toward him. “Why didn’t you fucking tell me?” she yelled.

“Because I knew you’d get all pissed like this,” he said loudly.

“So what, you’re blaming _me_ for your shitty plans?” she shouted.

“No,” he shouted back. “I — that’s not what I mean. It’s my — it’s my fault, all right? I should have said something before, but I just — I didn’t want to spoil things.”

“Spoil what things?” she demanded.

He shrugged awkwardly. “You know. Us.”

“Well, congratulations, because you fucking did,” she spat.

His face fell. He dropped her gaze and rubbed his mouth. “Right. Well…”

She cut him off. “I don’t fucking understand why you need to do this. You don’t need the Templars. If it’s lyrium you need, I’ll get it for you.”

He gave her a skeptical look. “How would you manage that?”

“Ask Varric to hook us up with some Carta smugglers or something,” she said impatiently. “I don’t know. But I’d figure it out if you really needed it.”

He eyed her for a second, then shook his head. “It’s not about the lyrium, Bird. Not just the lyrium, at least. It’s…” He slowly pulled his fingers through his hair once more. “I need to be something. I can’t just…” He looked up at her. “ _You’re_ something. Maker, you’re _really_ something. I just… want to be something too.”

“You are something,” she said in a hard tone. “You’re fine as you are. And you’re better than the Templars. They’re going to ruin you.”

Samson eyed her sadly for a moment, then looked away, and Roman studied his profile in silence: the jut of his chin and the aquiline slope of his nose and his ever-tired eyes — eyes that crinkled at the corners in amusement when he was making his snarky comments or when she was snarling at him to fuck her hard. Eyes that looked so serious now as he gazed into the middle distance thinking about… whatever the fuck he was thinking about.

She studied his familiar profile, the profile she’d grown used to falling asleep next to and waking up to and seeing every day at dinnertime when he came home from his daily hustle in Lowtown. That terrible pulsing ache in her chest was unfurling once more and making it hard for her to breathe, and she stared hard at Samson’s haggard and handsome face until she couldn’t bear to look at him anymore. 

She turned away from him and gazed blankly at the bedroom door. Behind her, she heard the shuffling of fabric as he got out of bed and pulled on his trousers. 

He stepped up behind her and squeezed her shoulder. “Come on, Bird, come to bed.”

She swallowed hard before speaking. “It’s like eight o’clock,” she said gruffly. 

“Closer to nine, actually,” he said. He rubbed her arm encouragingly. “Come on, come lounge around with me. I know you want to get your face up in my armpit and see how bad I smell.” 

Why was he being all teasing? He had no right to think anything was funny. He had no right to be fucking charming. He was leaving her, for fuck’s sake. 

Her guts felt like they were curdling with misery. She shrugged off his hand. “Get out,” she said quietly. 

For a second, he didn’t reply. When he finally spoke, his teasing tone was gone. “You don’t mean that.”

She took a deep breath, then turned to face him. “I do mean it. Get out.”

His eyebrows creased. “I don’t know when I’ll get a chance to come back out ‘ere. Might be a while before I can come visit you.”

“I don’t want you to visit,” she said. “Don’t come back. I don’t want to see you anymore.”

His face went slack with disbelief. “You’re joking, right?”

“Do I look like I’m fucking joking?” 

He stared blankly at her for a second. Then he took her hand. “Look, you — you don’t have to do this,” he said. “We don’t—”

She whipped her hand away. “I mean it,” she said in a hard tone. “I don’t want to see you anymore. You want to be a Templar, then go be a Templar. Forget about me.”

He gaped incredulously at her. “You’re seriously doing this? You’re dumping me on my ear because I’m joining the Order?”

“ _I’m_ not the one doing anything,” she yelled. “ _You’re_ fucking leaving. You’d rather be with the fucking Templars than here, then go be with the Templars, and good riddance.”

He exhaled hard. “You daft bitch. You think I don’t want to stay with you? You think I’m not going to wake up in the barracks and miss your cranky face every bloody morning?”

The ugly misery roiled from her belly through her chest. How could he talk about missing her when _he_ was the one who was leaving? How could he make it sound like he gave a shit about her when he was leaving her to join a group of people that she fucking hated — a group of people who were just biding their time to take her down? He didn’t care about her. If he cared about her, he would believe her when she told him that he wasn’t a worthless piece of shit, and he would keep falling asleep with her and waking up with her and sitting with her by the fireplace and taking baths with her and fucking her every night.

If Samson cared about her, he would stay. But he was leaving her, just like she should have known he would.

Her eyes were burning. She glared fiercely at him. “Get out,” she said. “I’m not going to say it again.”

He exhaled slowly. “Roman…” 

“Get out!” she screamed. “Get the fuck out, all right? I’m done with you. I don’t want to see you anymore.”

He stared at her, and his expression twisted gradually from disbelief into anger. “Fine,” he said. “You want me to go, I’ll go.”

“Good,” she said viciously, and she watched with an ugly sort of satisfaction as he roughly pulled on his clothes. Once he was dressed, he strode toward the door and reached for the doorknob. 

Then he paused and turned back to her. “You’re going to miss me tonight,” he said in a low voice. “You’re too bloody stubborn to admit it, but you will. And I want you to know that it’s your own fucking fault that I won’t be ‘ere.”

Her rib cage swelled with rage. “Get the fuck out of my house and don’t come back,” she hissed. 

He gave her a hard look, then opened the door and stormed out. He thundered down the stairs, and Roman stood at the banister and watched as he strode toward the front door. 

Without any hesitation, he stepped out of the mansion and shut the door behind him, and Roman stared furiously at the closed door. He’d left so easily, not even stopping to look back at her or anything. All the more proof that he didn’t want to be with her. 

Her heart felt like it was twisting in on itself, filling her chest and her throat with that horrible ugly misery. She made her way down the stairs and went to the kitchen, then pulled out a full bottle of rum from the cupboard above the stove.

She headed back up the stairs, fuming all the while. Of course Samson had left. Of course he didn’t want her enough to stick around. Really, it was her own fault for letting him put down roots in her life. She should have dropped him completely after that first fuck, like she’d been doing with every other partner since she’d been fucked and then soundly dumped at the fragile age of sixteen. It was for the best that Samson was gone, because now she could go back to the way she used to be before he’d insidiously burrowed into her life. 

She pulled the cork out of the bottle of rum and took a long gulp. _I don’t need him. I don’t need anyone,_ she thought furiously, and she slammed her bedroom door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am [Pikapeppa](https://pikapeppa.tumblr.com/), and Roman's creator and divine artiste is [Schoute.](https://schoute.tumblr.com/) xo


	15. Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smut, as always, with all the usual warnings. ❤

###  SAMSON 

His first month back with the Templars was hell.

To be fair, it wasn’t all bad. The same night he returned to the Gallows, he was immediately given a draught of lyrium: _real_ lyrium, the good blue stuff that glowed with power. As soon as he finished drinking it, he felt healthier. His knees and his back stopped hurting, and only then did he realize that they’d been aching for years and he’d just gotten used to the pain. He felt stronger, more powerful, _better_.

And that, of course, was the real power of the lyrium: tying him and the other Templars to the supply of the Chantry so they couldn’t get away. 

He was given three sets of plain clothes and a brand-new set of armour, with a promise that he’d be fitted with a sword and shield on the morrow. He had supper in the mess hall with the other Templars: a bland but hearty stew of fish and root vegetables with a large piece of peasant bread. As he ate and listened to the other Templars’ boisterous talking, he thought about how this meal would have been a dream come true ten years ago, before Roman had ever come to town. And then he thought about the delicious seafood and potato stew that Orana made at the Amell estate, and the way Roman always put the biggest pieces of fish in his bowl and nagged him not to choke on the fucking bones.

When Samson went to bed in the barracks that first night, pain-free and stronger than he’d felt in years, he stared at the stone ceiling and thought about the thick velvet canopy over Roman’s bed. He thought about how tacky those damned velvet curtains were, and he thought about how it felt when Roman untied the curtains so they were enclosed together in her bed. He’d complain that it was like being shut into a bloody coffin, and she’d tell him to shut the fuck up and go to sleep. And when she tucked her bony spine against his chest and breathed into the cozy darkness, the canopy made it feel like it was just the two of them alone together in the world. 

He rose at the crack of dawn with the new recruits and got back into the old habits of drilling and exercising and maintaining his gear. He ate when the other Templars ate and he slept when they slept, and he savoured the feeling of his muscles aching every night, knowing that he was just getting stronger. 

When the Templars did their daily meditation and prayer, Samson mumbled the prayers by rote and stared unseeingly at the missal in his lap, and he thought instead about how Roman would read _Hard in Hightown: Siege Harder_ with a sneer on her face, and how she’d tell him to fuck off when he made fun of her for reading it for the fifth time.

For the entire month of his probation, Samson was the perfect Templar. He did as the Templars did, following their routines and their rules and taking his scheduled doses of lyrium, saying prayers and listening to Mad Meredith’s daily speeches and pretending that her zealous brand of shite wasn’t, well, utter _shite_. He was an ideal recruit, doing small practice patrols on the Wounded Coast under Cullen’s strict command, and if he was relieved not to spot any renegade apostates during his patrols that needed bringing in, he hid his relief completely. 

By the time his month of probation was over, he was eight pounds heavier and bulkier. He didn’t get tired halfway through the day anymore, and his feet didn’t hurt when he spent the whole day walking around in twenty pounds of armour. He was strong and powerful and ready to protect people the way a good Templar was supposed to do. He was well-fed and well-clothed and surrounded every day by his brethren, never without company whether he was sleeping or eating or training or meditating, and he’d never been more fucking lonely in his life. 

At the end of the month, as a reward for completing his retraining, he was given three days’ worth of paid leave. On the morning of the first day, he woke up at the crack of dawn and ate breakfast with his brethren, then put on his plain clothes and made his way to the Gallows’ docks, and he went straight back to Kirkwall. 

***********************

He didn’t go to Roman’s estate in Hightown; he was fairly sure that wasn’t where she would be. He knew what she was like when shitty things happened and how she was prone to cope, and he’d put good coin on the chances of her not being home. Instead, he made his way to the Hanged Man. 

As he walked to Lowtown in the fresh early-morning air, his stomach started to churn with nerves. Maybe he was overestimating how important he was to her. Maybe dumping him had actually been easy for her and she was glad to be rid of his sorry ass. She had told him multiple times to get the fuck out of her house, after all. But… ah, she couldn’t really throw away six years so easily, could she? It was hard for him to know if she’d meant it or not. She was such a contrary bitch, saying one salty thing while doing something sweet at the same time, and half the time Samson wasn’t sure whether he should trust the blade of her tongue or the rare tenderness of her hands. 

By the time he reached the Hanged Man, his gut was snarled with anxiety, and he was half-considering turning around and going back to the Gallows. But no, he couldn’t be such a coward. He had to… he had to know for sure if she’d really meant it when she’d said she never wanted to see him again. She’d been angry when they last spoke a month ago. Maybe now that she’d had some time to cool down…?

He scoffed at himself as the naïve wish crossed his mind. _Damned bird never cools down,_ he thought. _All she does is fester until she explodes._ And yet, despite his own pessimistic pep talk to himself, his feet were carrying him through the door to the Hanged Man.

The tavern was largely empty, save for the bartender and a barmaid and a few deeply drunken patrons who had fallen asleep at their tables. The bartender looked up in surprise when he entered, and Samson watched as the bartender’s gaze fell to the Templar insignia that was embroidered on the pocket of his shirt. 

The bartender’s eyes widened, and Samson shrugged listlessly. “I know, I know, Templars aren’t supposed to be ‘ere. Is Tethras in back?”

The bartender nodded silently, and Samson nodded his thanks and made a beeline for the inn section of the Hanged Man. He made his way to the inn’s nicest suite, then ran a nervous hand over his hair before knocking softly on the door. 

A moment later, Varric opened the door a crack, and his eyes widened slightly. “Hey,” he said quietly. “This is unexpected.”

Samson nodded. “She here?”

Varric studied him for a second, then stood back so Samson could enter. Varric’s suite was dimly lit by a couple of candelabras, and Samson’s wary gaze tracked from the untidy manuscript and plume on the table to the bed.

His stomach dropped. Isabela was asleep on Varric’s bed, and Roman was asleep beside her. She was curled on her side with her limbs in an awkward sprawl that made him think she’d been repositioned while unconscious, and there was an empty pail beside the bed near her head. 

He exhaled and rubbed his face. “Maker’s balls.”

Varric came over and folded his arms. “Don’t worry, she hasn’t needed the bucket. Not tonight, at least.”

Samson glanced at him. His tone was casual, but there was no ignoring the dark circles under his eyes. 

“She been like this all month?” he asked.

Varric made a face. “Well… she stayed at the house for a week until we forced her to come out. Then we went to this wyvern hunt up at some chateau in Orlais…”

Samson stared at him. “Wyvern hunt?”

He huffed. “Don’t ask. It was a good distraction for a while, though. But then we got back, and…” He trailed off and scratched his chin. “Eh, I don’t like her going home on her own like this, so she’s been staying here.”

Samson raised his eyebrows. “She agreed to stay here?” 

“She wasn’t exactly in a state to refuse,” Varric said carefully.

He let out a long sigh. “Fuck’s sake.”

Varric cocked his head. “What are you doing here, by the way? Does Cullen know you’re here?”

“I’m on leave for a few days,” Samson said. “And no, the Knight-Captain doesn’t know I’m here. Which probably means I should get out of ‘ere right quick.”

Varric hummed an acknowledgement, and they stood there quietly for a minute. Then Varric broke the increasingly awkward silence. “What happened?”

Samson shot him a guarded look. “She didn’t tell you?”

“She mentioned something,” Varric said vaguely.

“What did she say?” Samson asked.

Varric looked up at him. His eyebrows were slightly raised, and Samson scoffed quietly. “Right, right. Honour among thieves or something like that?”

Varric smiled faintly. “Something like that.”

Samson clicked his tongue, and they were silent for a moment longer. Then Samson grudgingly spoke. “She kicked me out. Told me to leave and not come back.”

Varric nodded slowly. “So why did you come back?”

Samson frowned slightly. “I do something to offend you?”

“Nah,” Varric said casually. “It’s just a question.”

Samson pursed his lips, then looked at Roman once more. Her face was pinched in a frown even in her sleep. With her hair askew and her arms and legs in an untidy sprawl, she looked so fucking fragile.

His chest was aching. He rubbed his face, then gave Varric a frank look. “Can I take her home or not?”

Varric studied him for a second longer. Then he nodded. “Yeah, that would be great. Thanks.”

Samson padded over to the bed and gently rolled Roman onto her back. Beside her, Isabela shifted, then opened her eyes.

She looked at Samson, then smirked. “At least wake a girl up before you join her in bed. Or don’t the Templars teach you any manners?”

Samson huffed. “Cap’n,” he muttered. He carefully slid his arms under Roman’s knees and shoulders, then lifted her up with ease, and he couldn’t decide whether to be relieved or worried when she didn’t react.

Isabela sat up. “Well, well. Someone’s gotten buff while they’ve been away.”

Samson ignored her and looked at Varric. “Mind gettin’ the door for me?”

Varric nodded and opened the door, and Samson edged back into the hall. He glanced at Varric and nodded briefly. “Tethras.”

Varric nodded as well. “Good luck.”

Samson smiled ruefully, then headed for the door of the Hanged Man. The bartender quickly opened the door for him, and he nodded his thanks and stepped out into Lowtown. 

He was thankful it was so early. There was barely anyone out, and by avoiding the Lowtown and Hightown markets by taking back alleys, Samson was able to carry Roman back to the mansion undisturbed. By the time he was walking up to her front door, however, she still hadn’t woken or stirred more than to smack her lips and scowl, and he was starting to wonder if he should stick her in a tub of cold water when they got inside just to make sure she would wake up at all.

Getting into the house was a struggle. He still had a set of Roman’s keys in the pocket of his trousers, and he knew she could magically open the door by touching it, but she was unconscious and his arms were full with her. In the end, he awkwardly shifted her to her feet and opened the door before scooping her back up, and by the time he was in the front foyer of her mansion, he was sweating from the awkward exertion, and the noise had brought Bodahn and Sandal downstairs. 

Bodahn’s eyebrows shot up. “Master Samson! Is Miz Hawke—? Here, let us help.” He gestured for Sandal to come closer. “Come on, my boy, let’s help Master Samson…”

“It’s all right,” Samson grunted. “I’ve got it.” He headed for the stairs with Roman in his arms. When he was halfway up the stairs, Roman finally started to stir. 

“Put me down,” she mumbled, and she tried to push herself out of his arms. 

“Calm down, Bird,” he said soothingly. “We’re almost upstairs.”

For a split second, she went still. Then, of _course_ , because she was a contrary piece of work, she started struggling harder. “You? What the fuck are _you_ — put me down!” 

He sighed sharply and started moving faster. “Roman—”

“I said put me down!” she yelled. “Why are you – put me down!” She slipped her hand inside his shirt and dug her nails into his chest.

He hissed in pain, then kicked open her bedroom door and clumsily set her on her feet. She immediately tried to push him away, then stumbled back and almost fell on her ass.

He hastily grabbed her arms. “For fuck’s sake, Roman–”

“Don’t help me!” she snarled. “I can do it myself.” She grabbed one of the posts of her four-poster bed, and when she had her feet back under her, she looked up at him.

Her eyes were bloodshot and her face was pale, and she was glaring fiercely at him. Of course she was glaring at him – he’d gone and joined the Templars on what she would see as a whim, since he’d stupidly not told her about his plans until it was too late. Of course she was mad, and Samson could understand why. 

But the longer Samson stared back at her, taking in the disbelief and the fury in her face, the angrier he began to feel. Sure, he’d failed to warn her about his plans, but _she_ had barely given him time to explain before she’d thrown him out.

A month had passed, and still he was reeling from the abruptness of it all. Six years they’d known each other, and they’d been fucking for four of them, and for the past nearly-three years he’d been living in her house. And still after all that time, all those days spent arguing and talking and fucking and all those nights spent together in her bed, she’d tossed him aside like a broken doll? 

He glared at her with a swelling of bilious heat in his gut. Her lip was curled with disdain and her gaze was tracking over his body as though she was cataloguing a monster that she’d never seen before, and the longer she looked at him with that disparaging look on her face, the angrier he got. 

“So?” he said roughly.

Her eyes returned to his face. “So what?” she demanded.

He took a step closer to her. “So are you going to chuck me out again? Scream at me to leave and never darken your doorstep again?”

Her face puckered with rage. “Fuck you,” she spat, and she stormed off to the bathroom and slammed the door. A second later, he heard the sound of the bath running.

Samson closed his eyes and sighed. _Why_ had he decided to come and see her again? He’d known she would be drunk when he found her, and Roman Hawke was a _mean_ drunk. He should’ve waited for a better time when she was sober before showing up like this. But he knew Roman’s ways, and honestly, he wasn’t sure there would have been any better time.

He stood there in her bedroom for a moment, breathing in the familiar faint scent of vanilla-almond and listening to the muffled sound of the bathtub filling up. By the time the sound stopped, his anger had ebbed away, leaving just a cold stone of melancholy in his gut.

He sat wearily in the clothing-strewn armchair beside the bed and ran his hands through his hair. He was already feeling exhausted, and it wasn’t even yet seven o’clock.

Some time later, long enough that Samson was genuinely considering climbing into her bed for a nap, the bathroom door opened.

Samson looked up. Roman’s frowning face was peering around the door. Her gaze darted around the room, and when she met his eye, her eyebrows rose.

Then she shut the door again.

He lifted his eyes to the ceiling for patience. “Roman, get the fuck out here,” he called. “I’m not in the bloody mood for peek-a-boo.”

He half-anticipated a snarky retort, but when no reply came, he wilted. Maybe he really had made a mistake coming here. If she really didn’t want him here, if she really had meant it when she’d said she never wanted to see him again, then he was just acting like a lecher who couldn’t get the hint. 

Maker, he’d really hoped that this would go differently. And hope, obviously, had been his big mistake. Who was he to be bold enough to hope for a better outcome, with her or with anything in his life? Where had Raleigh Samson gotten the balls to think that hoping for anything would come to more than disappointment? 

He scowled at the bathroom door. _It’s her,_ he thought. It was _her_ fault that he’d started hoping for… well, anything really. His life was worth shit until he’d met Roman Hawke, and then she’d started talking to him like he was a person and not a piece of trash. She’d given him stupid ideas that he was a good man, that he mattered and that he could make a difference in the world. So really, it was _her_ fault that he’d had the idiotic hope to come here in the first place. 

Angry at her once more, he stood up from the chair. Then the bathroom door opened, and Roman came out wrapped in a towel.

She glanced at him and paused, then curled her lip. “Leaving? What a fucking surprise.” She strode over to her changing screen and slipped behind it.

He folded his arms and stared balefully at her silhouette as she changed behind the screen. “If I remember right, you’re the one who screamed at me like a harpy to get out of your house.”

She didn’t reply. A second later, she came out from behind the screen wearing her dressing gown, and Samson couldn’t decide how to feel about this. Should he be hurt that she’d changed behind the screen, when she used to change right in front of him bold as brass? Or should he be excited that she was wearing her robe and not normal clothes? Or should he just be counting himself fortunate that she wasn’t shouting at him to leave? 

She folded her arms and stared flatly at him. He stubbornly returned her stare, and for a long, tense, silent moment, they just stared at each other like two wolves facing off before surging into a frenzied fight.

“Why are you here?” she said suddenly.

“I miss you,” he said.

The words slipped out before he even had the chance to think about them. Roman’s face went slack with surprise, and for a second — a minuscule split-second of time — he could have _sworn_ that he saw something vulnerable in her face.

His heart banged in his chest. Then her face creased back into its usual scowl. “What about your precious Templars? Did you leave the Order or something?”

“No,” he said. “I just finished my retraining. They granted me a few days’ leave.”

Her face hardened. “So you’re still a Templar.”

“Yes, Bird,” he said wearily. “I’m still a bloody Templar.”

She looked away from him, and he watched morosely as her jaw clenched. Then she shot him a hard look. “So you’re still a fucking Templar. And I told you to leave. So what the fuck are you doing here?”

He wilted. “I just told you. I—”

She interrupted him. “Are you here to drag me to the Gallows?”

He gaped at her. “Eh?”

“Did Meredith send you to take me in?” she demanded. “Is that what this is?”

He stared at her. Had she even heard what he’d said? “No, you daft cow, she didn’t send me. Nobody sent me.”

“So you’re here all on your own to take me in, then,” she said sharply.

He sighed loudly. “For fuck’s sake, Roman, I’m not taking you anywhere.”

“Why not?” she retorted. “That’s what Templars do, isn’t it? I’m an apostate, and you’re supposed to drag my ass back to the Gallows for a Harrowing.”

His guts twisted at the thought. Not that he thought she wouldn’t pass a Harrowing, but still. “I’m not — Maker’s fucking balls, I’m not taking you for a Harrowing.”

She let out a spiteful laugh. “I’d like to see you try. I’d like to see you fucking try to tie me up and take me to the Gallows by force.”

His heart flipped. Tie her up? Was she… No, he must be imagining her intentions in saying that. Wishful thinking powered by his overeager knob. It had to be. 

He peered carefully at her. She was still scowling and her arms were folded, but… but her breathing was quick and shallow, and there was a faint flush to her cheekbones. 

A bolt of anticipation shot through his gut. His gaze dropped to her groin, but it was covered by her dressing gown. Damn it, if only he could see… 

He lifted his eyes back to her furious face. “I’m not a Templar here, all right?” he said calmly. “I’m just… that’s not why I’m here. I’m not a Templar right now.” He lifted his eyebrows. “Unless you want me to be.”

She went still. “What?”

“I heard you,” he said. “You asked if I’m going to tie you up. I know you liked it that one time.” Then, despite his uncertainty, he took a small step closer to her.

Exactly as he’d prayed and hoped, she straightened slightly, and her folded arms loosened a little bit. Samson stepped closer still, and her scowl deepened, but she didn’t move away.

Feeling like he was trying to woo a feral tiger, he stepped right up to her until he was close enough to smell her freshly-washed hair. That vanilla-almond scent… it was sweet and smooth, not at all like the woman who wore it, and it made something tighten in his gut, like a fist of yearning wrapping around his insides. 

He breathed slowly to control himself. Then, boldly, bravely, he reached up and brushed his knuckles over her nipple. 

Her plump lips parted slightly with pleasure, and in that second, with that one tiny gesture of Roman’s acceptance, his entire body relaxed.

Nearly lightheaded with relief, he pinched her nipple. “Want me to tie you up, Bird?”

She swallowed hard. “Shut up,” she rasped.

“Why?” he asked. “If you want to play Templars and mages with me, just ask.”

“You’re fucking disgusting,” she spat. Her arms were loose at her sides now, however, and she was lifting her chest toward his hand. 

He breathed slowly through his nose to calm himself and rolled her nipple between his fingers. “You like it,” he said. “You missed it, didn’t you?”

“No,” she retorted.

He lifted his eyebrows. “You didn’t? You didn’t miss this?” Slowly, giving her time to move away, he untied the belt of her robe, then reached between her legs. 

He smoothed his fingers over her sex, and a rush of lust made him dizzy. She was slippery and hot and wet, and the feel of her triggered a flood of saliva in his mouth.

She gasped and grabbed the front of his shirt, and he exhaled hard as he caressed her pussy. Maker’s balls, she felt so fucking good, and he’d missed this so much — he’d missed _her_ , and she was allowing him to touch her like nothing had ever gone wrong between them… 

His heart throbbed painfully. With his free hand, he twisted his fingers in her hair and pulled her head back. 

She mewled, then gasped when he bit her throat. Then he pressed his lips to her ear. “Tell me you didn’t miss this,” he whispered. “Tell me you don’t want this, and I’ll stop.”

She didn’t speak. Her hips were shifting restlessly toward his fingers and her hands were twisted in the fabric of his shirt, and he waited breathlessly for her to tell him to stop. 

When a few tense heartbeats passed and Roman didn’t say a word, he released her hair and dropped to his knees in front of her. 

She grabbed his shoulder but didn’t stop him, so he untied her robe and slid it open, exposing her naked body to his eager gaze. She was just as he remembered, angular and pale aside from the dark curls between her legs, and… fucking hell, she was absolutely dripping wet.

He sighed and reached up to palm her tiny breast. “I knew you missed this,” he murmured.

She arched into his palm. “Shut the fuck up,” she gasped. 

He scoffed, then tilted his head and dipped his tongue between her legs. She gasped and bucked her hips toward his mouth, and he gripped her thigh to spread her wider before greedily licking her thighs.

The sweet and musky taste of her, and the private scent of her pussy… He’d fucking _missed_ this. He dragged his tongue along the margins of her inner thighs, licking her up until he couldn’t taste her anymore, then pressed his lips between her legs. 

He kissed and suckled her swollen folds, then began lapping greedily at her clit, and she mewled and gripped his hair. He swirled his tongue over her clit for a moment and savoured the erratic sound of her breathing, then suddenly leaned away and looked up at her. 

“How’s it feel to have a Templar on his knees for you?” he asked.

She looked down at him sharply. Her face was lit with lust, her lips flushed and parted and her cheeks pink, and when he smirked at her, her lip curled. 

She pushed him away, then stepped over to her armchair and sat down. Then, to his delight, she spread her legs wide. “Get over here and lick me, _Templar,_ ” she sneered. 

A dizzying wave of lust slammed through his body. Roman spread wide and baring herself to him, giving him permission to — to lick her, to touch her, even to look at her with all same lustful greed that he always had when he was studying her naked body: this was… it was more than he’d even hoped for, really, since he’d had no real plan in coming here aside from just seeing her again. 

And Maker’s balls, was he ever _seeing_ her. 

She arched her spine and ran her palm along the inside of her thigh. “Samson, get the fuck over here,” she complained.

 _Focus,_ he thought stupidly. He crawled over to the armchair and gave her a sardonic look. “Serrah Hawke,” he drawled, and he shoved her legs wide before lowering his mouth to her pussy. 

She moaned and fisted her hand in his hair again, and he enjoyed the tug of her fingers in his hair as he sealed his mouth over her wetness. He drank her in with sloppy open-mouthed kisses, savouring the taste of her and the softness of her flesh against his lips and the whimpering sounds of her pleasure, and when her breathing was sharp and her fingers tightened to a painful degree in his hair, he slid two fingers inside of her.

She gasped loudly, then lifted her hips toward him and cried out. “F-fuck — oh fuck!” 

He smirked and thrust his fingers inside of her and traced her clit with his tongue, and she writhed beneath his mouth, taking his fingers deep and mewling with pleasure in such an uninhibited way that he _felt_ the sound of her rapture in the pulsing of his cock. When she eventually settled back down on the chair with a breathless little moan, he finally lifted his mouth from her pussy.

He pulled his fingers free from her tight heat, then wiped his face on her inner thigh, and she flinched. “Your whiskers are scratchy,” she complained. 

Something in his chest swelled. She’d been complaining about his stubble for years, complaining that they scraped her skin even while she stroked his unshaven cheeks, and for some reason, hearing her make this familiar complaint made him feel like he might cry. 

He rose to his feet. “Get up,” he said gruffly.

She scowled at him. “Don’t tell me what to do.”

His heart squeezed painfully. Another familiar retort, one that she always threw at him when she was about to do exactly what he’d told her…

He took her arm and pulled her to her feet. “Take this thing off,” he said, and he started pulling her robe off of her shoulders.

She pulled her arm out of his grip. “Get your hands off me,” she snapped. 

He released her arms, then roughly tipped up her chin so she was looking him in the eye. “I’m going to fuck you, Roman,” he said.

Her spine arched and her lips popped open on a tiny gasp. His body thrilled at her obvious reaction, but he forced himself to gaze seriously into her eyes. “I’m a Templar and you’re an apostate,” he said quietly. “And you’re going to let me fuck you anyway, because this is what you want, isn’t it?”

Her lustful face twisted into a sneer. “Fuck you,” she hissed.

He gazed steadily at her. “Is this what you want?” he said.

She glared at him, her chest rising and falling with rapid angry breaths, and Samson just stood there calmly with his fingers on her chin, watching her face and her body and waiting for her to tell him what she wanted him to do. Was she going to tell him to get the fuck out? Was she going to tell him that she wanted him to stay? Was she going to ease this aching pain in his chest, or was she going to reinforce it by crushing him yet again?

“Fuck me,” she said quietly.

His heart flipped. “Say that again,” he said.

“Fuck me!” she yelled.

He gazed at her for a second longer. Then he released her chin. “Take off your robe,” he said. 

“Take off your shirt,” she retorted, and she dropped her robe on the floor.

He smiled faintly. Giddy now with disbelief and good fortune, he couldn’t help but tease her a bit. “Missed my hairy chest, did you?” he said, and he pulled his shirt off.

“No,” she retorted, but her eyes were sliding over his pecs and his abs and down to the waistband of his trousers, and he could see the interest in her perusal of his body. 

He pushed her toward the bed with one hand on her hip. “Lie down,” he said, and he started unlacing his trousers. 

She lifted her chin belligerently. “You can’t tell me what to do.” 

“Yes, I can,” he said.

“Why? Because you’re a fucking Templar?” she said sarcastically.

He gave her a chiding look. “No, Bird. Because you want me to.” He pulled his cock out of his trousers, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a crimson scarf — one of Roman’s own crimson scarves. 

Her face went slack with surprise, and he smiled faintly. “Lie down and put your hands over your head,” he said.

“Where did you get that?” she demanded. “Did you steal that from me?”

“You gave it to me,” he said.

“No I — wait, when?”

“The first time I fucked you in that alley by the Hanged Man,” he said.

Her face twisted with confusion. “Why—”

He cut her off. “Stop talking and lie down.”

Her scowl deepened. “But—”

He took hold of her throat and pushed her down so she was sitting on the bed. “Shut the fuck up and lie down, Roman.”

She gave him a venomous glare, but finally she did what he said, shuffling back on the bed and stretching her arms above her head. He kneeled between her legs and tied her wrists together with the crimson scarf, then looked her in the eye. 

She was still scowling at him, but her sloe-black eyes were shining. “I hate you,” she whispered.

He swallowed the lump in his throat, then smiled faintly at her. “Shut up, Bird,” he murmured. He swiftly hooked one of her legs over his arm, and in one smooth stroke, he entered her.

She let out a strangled moan, and he groaned and dropped his forehead to her collarbone. Fuck, _fuck,_ she felt so — Maker’s balls, he — she was so fucking wet and tight, and as he withdrew from her, it felt like her pussy was pulsing around him and trying to draw him back in… 

He thrust into her again, and she moaned. “F-fuck…” 

He dragged in a breath and pressed his teeth to her neck, then pumped into her again and again, wanting her more urgently with every thrust and missing her even as he was pulling out of her to slide back in once more. Her neck was fragrant and smooth against his lips and her bound wrists were straining against his other hand, and her broken little pleasured moans were like fuel for his pride, and he couldn’t credit his good fortune that she’d permitted him to have her again—

She sobbed suddenly, and Samson went still. “Bird, you all right?”

“Don’t stop,” she said.

Her voice sounded distinctly thick. Worried now, Samson lifted his face from her neck. “Roman, what’s—”

“I said don’t stop!” she yelled. “Don’t fucking look at me.”

He looked at her, and his heart quailed. There were tears trailing from the corners of her eyes down to her temples. 

He released her wrists and stroked her cheek. “Roman—”

She flinched away from his hand. “Don’t!” she cried. “Don’t look at me, just fuck me!”

Feeling on the verge of tears himself now, he gripped her jaw and forced her to look at him. “I’ll look at you if I bloody well want to,” he gritted, and he thrust into her hard. 

She cried out and arched into him. Samson released her jaw and pressed his forehead to hers and slammed into her again, and then he was holding her wrist once more while he filled her in smooth strokes and panted fitfully against her cheek.

Her breathing was erratic and shaky too, and the tears were still trickling down the sides of her face. Her breath was hot against his lips, and every now and then her parted lips brushed against his own as the impact of their bodies jostled them together. 

He closed his eyes and thrust into her, sinking his focus into everything he was feeling: the tight hot pull of her body as she took him deep, the sweaty warmth of her forehead pressed to his, the thrilling touch of her lips on his as he fucked her slow and hard…

Without slowing in his rhythm, he angled his head slightly, brushing his nose to hers and tasting her lower lip with his tongue. She didn’t move away and she didn’t complain, so Samson licked her lip again and brushed his lip over hers.

She lifted her chin and panted against his lips. Riled by her breathing and the perfect tightness of her body and her straining wrist in his hand, he kissed her. 

She breathed fitfully against his lips, but she didn’t bite him. When he kissed her again, this time dipping his tongue into her mouth, she angled her head slightly to deepen the kiss.

A warm sort of ache fanned through his chest. She was letting him kiss her. Roman was letting him kiss her without biting back, and she was letting him lick her and fuck her and tie her up, and — Maker’s balls, he’d missed her so fucking much. 

Nearly overcome with unbearable feeling, he kissed her and clenched his fingers in the sheets and curled his hips into hers, fucking her in a slow hard rhythm and uninhibitedly stroking her tongue with his as the pleasure coiled and tightened deep in his abdomen. When his climax burst, he groaned shamelessly into her mouth and slammed into her with frantic hard thrusts.

Just as his climax was winding down, Roman bit his tongue.

He grunted in pain and broke their kiss, then pressed his forehead to hers. “Damn it, Bird,” he panted. 

She scoffed but didn’t reply, and she didn’t make any move to push him off like she usually did. Samson released her leg to the bed and closed his eyes, and for a long moment, he just savoured the rare pleasure of Roman’s naked body beneath him.

They lay in silence together for a long moment, their breath melding together just like the sweat between their bodies, and Samson marvelled at how loose and relaxed he felt. Then Roman broke the silence. “Untie me.”

He lifted his head. “Oh, right. Sorry.” He sat back on his knees and untied her wrists.

She lowered her arms and rubbed her wrists, and Samson watched with regret as her expression became closed off once more. “When are you leaving?” she said. 

“Well, I… I’m on leave until — I have to report back on Tuesday,” he said hesitantly. 

She shot him a hard look. “So you are leaving again.”

“I have to,” he said. “I told you, I’m still with the Order.”

She narrowed her eyes, then abruptly sat upright. “So you came here just to fuck me?”

“No,” he said blankly. “I — I didn’t know if you would even talk to me.”

“Then why did you come back?” she demanded. “If you’re — you’re still a fucking Templar and you didn’t mean to fuck me, then why are you here? What do you want?”

He stared at her with an uncomfortable churning in his gut, then sat upright. “You’re having me on, right? Asking such bloody stupid questions?”

“I’m not stupid!” she snapped.

“You sound pretty damn stupid right now,” he retorted. “Why d’you think I came back?”

Her face crumpled, and she looked away from him. “I don’t fucking know, okay? If you’re just going to leave again, then—”

“I love you, all right?” he said loudly. “I — I love you.”

She gaped at him, and his gut twisted with discomfort. He had never said this to anyone before. Maybe to his mum at some point, but even if he had said it to her, he had no memory of saying it. Here he’d gone and said it, and Roman was just staring blankly at him, and the discomfort in his gut writhed even more. He’d put these foreign words out there for the first time that he could ever remember, and she was gaping at him like he’d just cursed in Qunlat. 

Feeling horribly awkward now, he rubbed the back of his neck. Then her expression became pinched and angry once more, like she was trying hard not to cry. 

Torn between discomfort for himself and tenderness for her, he sighed. “Come on, Bird, just—”

“Then why did you leave?” she burst out.

He raised his eyebrows. “Eh?”

“If you — whatever, if you—” She broke off, then glared at him. “Then why did you leave?”

He slumped in exasperation. “You told me multiple times to get out.” He put on a mocking high-pitched tone. “‘Get the fuck out of my house, Samson.’ I think those’re the words you used. I’m not made of stone, Roman,” he said angrily. “I can’t just take all your shit without – without being a little hurt by it.”

She gestured impatiently at herself. “If I’m so fucking mean to you, then why — why do you—” She interrupted herself with a little sob, then hunched her shoulders and scowled as though she was mad at herself, and that aching feeling in his chest swelled to an almost unbearable degree.

He peeled back the blankets and slid under them, then patted the mattress. “Get in here.” 

She wiped her cheek and shot him a dirty look. Exasperated, he took hold of her arm and pulled her toward him. “Just get your skinny ass in here, will you?”

She scowled but slid under the covers, and he lay down beside her and curled his arm over her. “You’re a fucking pain in the ass, Bird.”

She _tsk_ ed and tried to push away from him, but he tightened his arm around her. “You’re a pain in the ass and you can be bloody mean sometimes,” he said doggedly, “but I love you.”

“Why?” she snapped. 

“I just do, all right?” he said impatiently. “I — I don’t know what to tell you. If you’re fishin’ for flowery compliments, go talk to Tethras. I’ve got no fancy words for you, I just… I love you, and I’m not going anywhere. I mean, I’ve got to back to the Gallows,” he said quickly, “but… but I’m not — I’m not bloody _leaving_ you. That’s not — that’s never what I meant to do.”

She stared at him for a second longer, and he tenderly watched the tears collecting in her eyes again. She pressed her lips together hard, then suddenly shuffled closer to him.

She butted her forehead against his chest, and he shifted onto his back partway so she could curl up against his side. Her knees were sharp against his thigh and her head was tucked awkwardly under his armpit, and he thought his heart might burst with tenderness. 

They lay there together for some time as the morning light leaked gradually through a crack in the curtains. Then Roman spoke in a muffled voice. “I didn’t really want you to leave, you know.”

He glanced at her. Her face was hidden against his chest, and Samson recognized this for what it was: the closest she would get to an apology. 

“I won’t really be leaving,” he said quietly. “Even when I have to go.”

“Whatever,” she mumbled. 

Her voice was a little wobbly. Samson turned slightly toward her and rubbed her shoulder. “Come on, Bird,” he said gently. “Don’t get weepy on me.”

“I’m not weepy,” she snapped. “I’m just — you smell. It’s making my eyes water.”

He snorted a laugh. Yet another of her common complaints that was really just a veil for something she liked about him — maybe even that she loved, even if she’d never admit it. 

“I know,” he said. “Can I use your fancy tub later? That’s really what I missed the most.”

She _tsk_ ed and gently punched his side. “Fuck you.” 

“You just did,” he said slyly.

She scoffed and tried to push him away, but he rolled toward her and pulled her against his body. She struggled halfheartedly for a second, then settled in his arms, and he smiled to himself before kissing her forehead. 

“You’re a pain in the ass,” he whispered. 

“Shut up,” she muttered. Then she draped her arm around his waist. 

His heart fluttered. He closed his eyes, and feeling calmer and more relaxed than he had all month, Samson fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are [Pikapeppa](https://pikapeppa.tumblr.com/) and [Schoute](https://schoute.tumblr.com/) \-- usually can't be bothered with Tumbles, but you can find us there nonetheless. xoxo


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